Replayed it so many times the memory’s gone soft at the edges, more fantasy than fact. Wondered if he remembers. If he’s noticed I’ve been here every Tuesday since.
If he’s building a file on me the way I’m building one on him.
Probably not.
Men like him don’t notice women like me.
I’m forgettable. The human equivalent of wallpaper. I blend into backgrounds while cataloging everyone else in alarming detail.
Which is fine. Safer that way.
I’m reaching for my wine when a man approaches Dario’s table.
Not a server. Someone younger, agitated. The kind of wound-up energy that makes every nerve in my body sit up and pay attention.
Dario’s posture shifts. Shoulders back. Expression going carefully blank.
That’s his tell. That neutral face means he’s about to do something.
I know this because I’ve been watching him for five weeks.
Observing.
God, I need hobbies that don’t involve potential felonies.
The other man’s talking. Low, urgent. I can’t catch words but I can read the escalation. Hands clenching. Voice rising.
“...told you...” “...can’t keep...” “...fucking serious...”
Dario stands.
And oh.
Oh.
There’s something about the way he moves, efficient, controlled, like violence gift-wrapped in Italian wool, that makes my brain chemistry do something extremely inadvisable.
The other man’s yelling now. Getting in his face.
And then it happens.
Fast. Too fast. One second the man’s yelling, the next he’s not. Not yelling, not even on his feet.
He’s on the floor with red blooming across his shirt like a fucked-up Rorschach test.
The restaurant erupts. Screaming. Chairs scraping. Someone’s phone clattering.
But I’m not screaming.
I’m watching Dario adjust his cuffs.
Straighten his jacket.
Like the body on the floor is an inconvenience between him and his linguine. Like he just swatted a mosquito instead of ending someone’s entire existence.
Why is that hot?
I shouldn’t be aroused. I am. My entire body is malfunctioning in public, and the only thing I want is for Dario to look at me, see what he’s done to me, to do it again.
