Page 82 of Mario
She follows me slowly.
I open the cabinet and take out two plates. Simple white. One has a tiny chip along the rim. I notice because I notice everything. I also notice the way she watches me move through her kitchen, as if the sight unsettles her as much as it fascinates her.
Good. Let her be unsettled.
I have spent two weeks being unsettled by her.
I unpack the food. Pasta in a light tomato sauce. Chicken with lemon and herbs. Bread. Soup. A small container of tiramisu.
Victoria sees it and blinks. “That is a lot of food.”
“You have not eaten properly.”
“I’m one person.”
“I am another.”
I place the containers on the counter, and for a moment, there is an easy domesticity to it that is more intimate than any kiss.
It is the illusion of a shared life that doesn't belong to us.
I open a drawer and find forks.
Victoria finally moves, taking out glasses. She pulls out a bottle of sparkling water and fills them.
We do not speak.
We simply move around each other in her small kitchen, an unspoken choreography that feels too natural.
I serve pasta onto both plates and bring them to the small table by the window.
There are two chairs.
We sit and the silence continues.
Then she picks up her fork and takes a bite.
Her shoulders relax almost immediately.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes her.
Simple, unguarded relief.
Something in my chest loosens.
I eat.
It is not my pasta.
The sauce is too sweet. The pasta is slightly overcooked.
But watching her eat makes it taste like the best meal I have had.
She is hungry. That much is obvious. She eats methodically, efficiently, but with a growing pleasure that she doesn’t bother to hide anymore.
“What is this place?” she asks between bites.
“Small family-owned. I have not eaten there before.”
