hair up, pulling a couple of kirbigrips out of my curls so I can pin them back onto the crown of my head. I feel released, happy, the tension all gone, my limbs loose and easy, my mind clear.
The cool breeze caresses the back of my neck. I take one of the grips out of my mouth and anchor it through a handful of curls; I’m just about to do the same with the other one when a shadow moves behind a white fall of muslin like a ghost, one long-fingered hand, ringed with silver, reaching up to pull back the curtain.
It’s Luca.
They Have Pizza in Italy!
The curtain billows gently in the breeze behind him as he steps out to meet me, his hair jet-black by contrast with the translucent white fabric. I jump, gasp, and nearly swallow the grip that I’m still holding between my lips; quickly, I pull it out before it goes down my throat and chokes me. It’s wet with drool.
Lovely, Violet. Really attractive
. I shove it into my hair, anywhere, praying it will stay and not fall on the floor, still dripping with spit.
Luca’s smiling down at me. His face is half in light, half in shade, from the spots playing across the dance floor, his blue eyes gleaming.
“You like to dance,” he observes conversationally.
“Yes.…”
Safe question, safe answer
. Well, at least I didn’t babble. But he doesn’t say anything else; he’s just looking me up and down, and I feel incredibly awkward under his scrutiny. I’m sweaty, catching my breath; my eyeliner’s probably running. I desperately need to escape into the dark night beyond the dance floor, where the breeze will cool me down and the shadows will hide my shiny face.
“I want to get some fresh air,” I say, and move around him, stepping off onto the stone slabs and promptly sinking with one heel into the narrow space between them.
“Oops!” I say idiotically, ignoring the hand that Luca is stretching out to help me. The last thing I need right now is to touch him, for all sorts of reasons. I keep walking, pulling my heel out from between the paving stones; mercifully, it comes out without catching or ripping off. I honestly think that even if it did, I would keep going; I’d walk on a sandal without a heel all night, balance on my toes, pretend nothing had happened, and think it a fair price to pay for my flight into the comparative darkness of the chill-out area, where Luca can’t see the sweat on my face.
He’s following me. I can hear his leather-soled shoes on the stone. And I have no idea where I’m going. I feel ridiculous. Luckily, ahead of me I see a terrace with tables, and I walk toward it as if I’d planned to head there all along.
“You want a drink?” he asks. He gestures over to the right, and I see the white gleam of the long bar, the translucent milky-white pillars shining as if we’re underwater.
I don’t need to drink any more alcohol tonight. Especially in the company of Luca. “Maybe some water. I’m really thirsty.”
He nods, turns, and walks toward the bar. I watch him go. Tall, lean, with a nice firm bum in his black jeans.
Exactly what I like in a boy
. And then I feel my face flaming, because this isn’t just some boy at an airport, or viewed from a car. This is real.
He’s
real. He’ll be back in just a few minutes, and I won’t have the faintest idea what to say to him.…
Turning away, I frantically dab at my face with the backs of my hands, trying to matte myself down. I consider, momentarily, running off to the loo to do a better fix-up job on myself, but what if Luca comes back and doesn’t find me here? I can’t go over to the bar and tell him I’m going to the loo and to wait for me, because the mere thought of trying to communicate the word “toilet” to him makes me wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. What if he doesn’t understand? What if I have to do some sort of mime to explain? I’d rather
die
.
So I pat my face down, pull out the lip gloss from my handbag and reapply it, pray that
The cool breeze caresses the back of my neck. I take one of the grips out of my mouth and anchor it through a handful of curls; I’m just about to do the same with the other one when a shadow moves behind a white fall of muslin like a ghost, one long-fingered hand, ringed with silver, reaching up to pull back the curtain.
It’s Luca.
They Have Pizza in Italy!
The curtain billows gently in the breeze behind him as he steps out to meet me, his hair jet-black by contrast with the translucent white fabric. I jump, gasp, and nearly swallow the grip that I’m still holding between my lips; quickly, I pull it out before it goes down my throat and chokes me. It’s wet with drool.
Lovely, Violet. Really attractive
. I shove it into my hair, anywhere, praying it will stay and not fall on the floor, still dripping with spit.
Luca’s smiling down at me. His face is half in light, half in shade, from the spots playing across the dance floor, his blue eyes gleaming.
“You like to dance,” he observes conversationally.
“Yes.…”
Safe question, safe answer
. Well, at least I didn’t babble. But he doesn’t say anything else; he’s just looking me up and down, and I feel incredibly awkward under his scrutiny. I’m sweaty, catching my breath; my eyeliner’s probably running. I desperately need to escape into the dark night beyond the dance floor, where the breeze will cool me down and the shadows will hide my shiny face.
“I want to get some fresh air,” I say, and move around him, stepping off onto the stone slabs and promptly sinking with one heel into the narrow space between them.
“Oops!” I say idiotically, ignoring the hand that Luca is stretching out to help me. The last thing I need right now is to touch him, for all sorts of reasons. I keep walking, pulling my heel out from between the paving stones; mercifully, it comes out without catching or ripping off. I honestly think that even if it did, I would keep going; I’d walk on a sandal without a heel all night, balance on my toes, pretend nothing had happened, and think it a fair price to pay for my flight into the comparative darkness of the chill-out area, where Luca can’t see the sweat on my face.
He’s following me. I can hear his leather-soled shoes on the stone. And I have no idea where I’m going. I feel ridiculous. Luckily, ahead of me I see a terrace with tables, and I walk toward it as if I’d planned to head there all along.
“You want a drink?” he asks. He gestures over to the right, and I see the white gleam of the long bar, the translucent milky-white pillars shining as if we’re underwater.
I don’t need to drink any more alcohol tonight. Especially in the company of Luca. “Maybe some water. I’m really thirsty.”
He nods, turns, and walks toward the bar. I watch him go. Tall, lean, with a nice firm bum in his black jeans.
Exactly what I like in a boy
. And then I feel my face flaming, because this isn’t just some boy at an airport, or viewed from a car. This is real.
He’s
real. He’ll be back in just a few minutes, and I won’t have the faintest idea what to say to him.…
Turning away, I frantically dab at my face with the backs of my hands, trying to matte myself down. I consider, momentarily, running off to the loo to do a better fix-up job on myself, but what if Luca comes back and doesn’t find me here? I can’t go over to the bar and tell him I’m going to the loo and to wait for me, because the mere thought of trying to communicate the word “toilet” to him makes me wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. What if he doesn’t understand? What if I have to do some sort of mime to explain? I’d rather
die
.
So I pat my face down, pull out the lip gloss from my handbag and reapply it, pray that
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