“I’ll bring it right away!”
I
almost regret having cut up the whole tart and having made such small slices.
When I return with Nic’s second slice, Andrea passes me his empty plate. “Me
too.”
I
squint my eyes and look at Linda, who catches my look and laughing, hurries to
say, “No, it’s really good, but for me no.”
When
I return with Andrea’s seconds, I sit down again beside Linda, who is typing
something on her telephone. I lean over and read the draft for an sms: I
confirm the Brad Pitt level.
I
chuckle, hoping to seem amused, but a vice tightens on my stomach, overfull of
muffin among other things. I hand her the telephone and, after a few seconds,
she types again: But no-one is more handsome than Marco.
I
smile once again and, silently, give it back.
“We
should do something like this too, Andre,” says Nic, elbowing Andrea. “We’ll
tell each other secrets via sms…”
Andrea
observes us without commenting, while finishing the second slice.
“What
do you have to tell each other that we can’t hear?” Nic persists.
“Who
said that we had something to say?” Answers Linda smartly. “Maybe I was showing
her a photo…”
“Hmm…”
“Olly?”
Rosy calls me, with a touch of ill-disguised satisfaction. “Table six.”
I
turn to the two girls who are looking around, in search of me. “I have to go,”
I say standing up.
After
having served the girls again – who I try to push my tart to with great nonchalance
– the moment I’m behind the counter, Linda and the others get up from the
table. Nic waves, Linda says bye and makes a sign towards the telephone, as
though to say “later we’ll talk”, while Andrea takes two steps towards me but
is intercepted by Rosy. I wave to him and go to clean the empty tables.
Rosy
is doing what I told her to do, that is, asking him for his number herself. The
thing doesn’t affect me, anyway Andrea is practically Linda. Would I feel my
insides twist if Rosy asked for Linda’s number? Maybe I’d find it mildly
irritating, because Linda is mine in a certain sense, but it wouldn’t twist my
insides. It’s just that I’m cleaning this table with too much energy… The table
in question is that beside the two girls, who suddenly stop chatting. I lift my
head to understand the reason for this silence and find Andrea two centimeters
from my face. I do a mini-jump back. “Quit moving around so silently.”
“Why
the sad face?”
“I
thought you had gone…” And I look out of the cafè windows to see if Nic and
Linda are waiting for him, but they’ve already gone.
“Could
you manage to answer for a change?” He says with a tone that makes me turn immediately
towards him.
“I
don’t have a sad face.”
“What
do you mean. You lit up for an instant only for the moment of the tart,” says
Andrea putting his hands in his pockets. “Do I have to eat a third slice to see
you smile?”
I
smile automatically, but I quickly move towards the other table, a little
farther away from the girls, who with an effort return to chatting. I start to
clean it even though it’s already clean and he follows me. “What’s wrong?”
How
I’d like to answer with the truth, to answer that I’m hating myself right now,
mostly about the muffins, but also for what I feel, and what I felt two seconds
ago and what I’m still feeling now. How I’d like to ask him, “Did you give your
number to Rosy?”, “Will you go out with her?”, “Will you kiss her?”, “Will you
touch her?”, “Do you like Rosy? Or do you like Linda? La marvelous Linda…”
In
the real world I answer, “Nothing.”
Andrea
blows out, “You know what I’d like for once?”
I
lift my head from the table and he takes it as an invitation to continue, “I’d
like it if you’d answer my questions.”
“But
really nothing’s the matter.”
With
his hands still in his pockets he looks around for a moment. He moves those
transparent eyes from me and, allowing me to
I
almost regret having cut up the whole tart and having made such small slices.
When I return with Nic’s second slice, Andrea passes me his empty plate. “Me
too.”
I
squint my eyes and look at Linda, who catches my look and laughing, hurries to
say, “No, it’s really good, but for me no.”
When
I return with Andrea’s seconds, I sit down again beside Linda, who is typing
something on her telephone. I lean over and read the draft for an sms: I
confirm the Brad Pitt level.
I
chuckle, hoping to seem amused, but a vice tightens on my stomach, overfull of
muffin among other things. I hand her the telephone and, after a few seconds,
she types again: But no-one is more handsome than Marco.
I
smile once again and, silently, give it back.
“We
should do something like this too, Andre,” says Nic, elbowing Andrea. “We’ll
tell each other secrets via sms…”
Andrea
observes us without commenting, while finishing the second slice.
“What
do you have to tell each other that we can’t hear?” Nic persists.
“Who
said that we had something to say?” Answers Linda smartly. “Maybe I was showing
her a photo…”
“Hmm…”
“Olly?”
Rosy calls me, with a touch of ill-disguised satisfaction. “Table six.”
I
turn to the two girls who are looking around, in search of me. “I have to go,”
I say standing up.
After
having served the girls again – who I try to push my tart to with great nonchalance
– the moment I’m behind the counter, Linda and the others get up from the
table. Nic waves, Linda says bye and makes a sign towards the telephone, as
though to say “later we’ll talk”, while Andrea takes two steps towards me but
is intercepted by Rosy. I wave to him and go to clean the empty tables.
Rosy
is doing what I told her to do, that is, asking him for his number herself. The
thing doesn’t affect me, anyway Andrea is practically Linda. Would I feel my
insides twist if Rosy asked for Linda’s number? Maybe I’d find it mildly
irritating, because Linda is mine in a certain sense, but it wouldn’t twist my
insides. It’s just that I’m cleaning this table with too much energy… The table
in question is that beside the two girls, who suddenly stop chatting. I lift my
head to understand the reason for this silence and find Andrea two centimeters
from my face. I do a mini-jump back. “Quit moving around so silently.”
“Why
the sad face?”
“I
thought you had gone…” And I look out of the cafè windows to see if Nic and
Linda are waiting for him, but they’ve already gone.
“Could
you manage to answer for a change?” He says with a tone that makes me turn immediately
towards him.
“I
don’t have a sad face.”
“What
do you mean. You lit up for an instant only for the moment of the tart,” says
Andrea putting his hands in his pockets. “Do I have to eat a third slice to see
you smile?”
I
smile automatically, but I quickly move towards the other table, a little
farther away from the girls, who with an effort return to chatting. I start to
clean it even though it’s already clean and he follows me. “What’s wrong?”
How
I’d like to answer with the truth, to answer that I’m hating myself right now,
mostly about the muffins, but also for what I feel, and what I felt two seconds
ago and what I’m still feeling now. How I’d like to ask him, “Did you give your
number to Rosy?”, “Will you go out with her?”, “Will you kiss her?”, “Will you
touch her?”, “Do you like Rosy? Or do you like Linda? La marvelous Linda…”
In
the real world I answer, “Nothing.”
Andrea
blows out, “You know what I’d like for once?”
I
lift my head from the table and he takes it as an invitation to continue, “I’d
like it if you’d answer my questions.”
“But
really nothing’s the matter.”
With
his hands still in his pockets he looks around for a moment. He moves those
transparent eyes from me and, allowing me to
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