the cold wind. A car stops. I see a woman’s slender hand on the steering wheel. He gets in, they drive off, and the sleet swallows them.
I spend the evening drawing and eating Mini Ritz crackers. I have an album full of images like the one I’m drawing tonight: always the same subject, drawn in pencil, charcoal, chalk, pastels . . . The images are my stolen glimpses. Luca looking thoughtful as he stares at the computer screen, rereading the last lines he’s written, chin propped on his hand. Luca sleeping alone, with the sheets clinging to him like a woman’s legs. Luca in the shower, the frosted glass revealing only the shadow of his muscles and the wave of his hair. I know I’m halfway to stalker status, because he doesn’t know about these drawings. But I need them, not just so I can marvel at the beauty of his features, but so I can see the beauty that his emotions reveal. Tonight, I draw him with the same sad eyes I saw before he left.
Around midnight, I hear the sound of a car on the road, and I cautiously look outside again. It’s the same car from earlier, and Luca and the woman get out. The snow has stopped, and the light of a streetlamp illuminates them. She’s young, and from what I can see from up here, she’s beautiful. Elegant and graceful, she doesn’t look like the women that usually traipse through here. A green silk scarf is wrapped around her short hair, which I think is the same color as honey. They talk, and even from above I sense excitement between them. He takes her hand and squeezes it as if to warm her. Then they embrace. For a moment, my heart stops. I’m seriously ready to throw myself out the window and splatter on the sidewalk like a spilled scoop of ice cream. But first, I’d like to have some bionic ears so I can hear what they’re saying. There’s something sweet in the way they’re standing, something infinitely worse than the wild encounters I’m used to seeing.
I scramble away from the window just as Luca opens the front door of the apartment complex. The woman doesn’t follow him up; instead, she gets in her car and drives away. I hide my drawings and rush to the couch, then stretch out as if I’ve been asleep. When he opens the door, I pretend that the noise wakes me up. He looks dreamy, as if his mind is somewhere else, perhaps still with the beautiful girl with the scarf and the slender hands.
“How’d it go?” I ask him with hypocritical nonchalance.
“It was nothing special.”
“Did you make a new friend?”
He doesn’t answer me or even say good night—he just tells me that he’s going to bed. I’m left alone with the sound of the TV. Suddenly I realize this is what it’s going to be like when he leaves. There’s no doubt in my mind that he will. He’ll fall in love, and he’ll leave me, forgetting all his theories about the illusion of love. The weight of this thought is heavy, and I arch my back under it. Who is this mysterious woman who is bringing out his tender side? Yesterday Luca was his usual self, a ruthless womanizer. What happened, and when? This morning, while I was gone? Was it love at first sight? While I gave an audience of complete strangers a show, did Luca feel butterflies in his stomach and fall in love?
I seem to have lost him.
Except he was never mine in the first place.
I listen for the sound of his feet on the floor before I get up. As I walk barefoot down the hall, I’m tempted to barge into his room and tell him that I love him.
But wisdom sends me to my room.
SEVEN
Luca has been acting increasingly strange lately. He doesn’t talk much, he writes for hours without a break, and he disappears every night, even when he’s not bartending. One night he didn’t even come back home until eight in the morning, as I was drinking a five-shot espresso with trembling hands. He looked tired and pale. He smiled, gave me a peck on the cheek, and went to shower.
Fortunately, work has kept me busy. After the first week on
I spend the evening drawing and eating Mini Ritz crackers. I have an album full of images like the one I’m drawing tonight: always the same subject, drawn in pencil, charcoal, chalk, pastels . . . The images are my stolen glimpses. Luca looking thoughtful as he stares at the computer screen, rereading the last lines he’s written, chin propped on his hand. Luca sleeping alone, with the sheets clinging to him like a woman’s legs. Luca in the shower, the frosted glass revealing only the shadow of his muscles and the wave of his hair. I know I’m halfway to stalker status, because he doesn’t know about these drawings. But I need them, not just so I can marvel at the beauty of his features, but so I can see the beauty that his emotions reveal. Tonight, I draw him with the same sad eyes I saw before he left.
Around midnight, I hear the sound of a car on the road, and I cautiously look outside again. It’s the same car from earlier, and Luca and the woman get out. The snow has stopped, and the light of a streetlamp illuminates them. She’s young, and from what I can see from up here, she’s beautiful. Elegant and graceful, she doesn’t look like the women that usually traipse through here. A green silk scarf is wrapped around her short hair, which I think is the same color as honey. They talk, and even from above I sense excitement between them. He takes her hand and squeezes it as if to warm her. Then they embrace. For a moment, my heart stops. I’m seriously ready to throw myself out the window and splatter on the sidewalk like a spilled scoop of ice cream. But first, I’d like to have some bionic ears so I can hear what they’re saying. There’s something sweet in the way they’re standing, something infinitely worse than the wild encounters I’m used to seeing.
I scramble away from the window just as Luca opens the front door of the apartment complex. The woman doesn’t follow him up; instead, she gets in her car and drives away. I hide my drawings and rush to the couch, then stretch out as if I’ve been asleep. When he opens the door, I pretend that the noise wakes me up. He looks dreamy, as if his mind is somewhere else, perhaps still with the beautiful girl with the scarf and the slender hands.
“How’d it go?” I ask him with hypocritical nonchalance.
“It was nothing special.”
“Did you make a new friend?”
He doesn’t answer me or even say good night—he just tells me that he’s going to bed. I’m left alone with the sound of the TV. Suddenly I realize this is what it’s going to be like when he leaves. There’s no doubt in my mind that he will. He’ll fall in love, and he’ll leave me, forgetting all his theories about the illusion of love. The weight of this thought is heavy, and I arch my back under it. Who is this mysterious woman who is bringing out his tender side? Yesterday Luca was his usual self, a ruthless womanizer. What happened, and when? This morning, while I was gone? Was it love at first sight? While I gave an audience of complete strangers a show, did Luca feel butterflies in his stomach and fall in love?
I seem to have lost him.
Except he was never mine in the first place.
I listen for the sound of his feet on the floor before I get up. As I walk barefoot down the hall, I’m tempted to barge into his room and tell him that I love him.
But wisdom sends me to my room.
SEVEN
Luca has been acting increasingly strange lately. He doesn’t talk much, he writes for hours without a break, and he disappears every night, even when he’s not bartending. One night he didn’t even come back home until eight in the morning, as I was drinking a five-shot espresso with trembling hands. He looked tired and pale. He smiled, gave me a peck on the cheek, and went to shower.
Fortunately, work has kept me busy. After the first week on
Similar Books
