listens with interest. Over dinner, I realize that Tony is actually much nicer than I expected. While Filippo and Lara silently stuff their faces and Armando harasses everyone with his theories, Tony pours me a drink and gives me an unexpected compliment about my hair.
“It’s so lively and sinuous. I’d love to paint your face. You’re very beautiful.”
Beautiful? I laugh. “It’d end up looking like a caricature of a rabbit.”
“I’ve never seen a face as extraordinary as yours,” he says. “It amazes me that you aren’t aware of that. As an artist, you should be able to recognize the details. Your upper lip is sublime. It’s got a particular curve, like a small wave.”
For a moment, I look at him as if he were wearing a straitjacket. And I feel stupidly excited.
I wonder why, when I do receive a compliment, I’m convinced it’s a shameless lie told for the sole purpose of getting between my legs. Perhaps it’s because no one has really admired me for, like, a century. Maybe it’s because my mother called me this morning to remind me again of Beatrice’s wedding. Or maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Luca pouring alcohol into the glass of some woman who’s willing to give it to him right there, right then, on the bar.
But sometimes it’s nice to pretend I’m not the ugly version of my little sister. Also the red wine, which is full-bodied and fruity, is making me feel euphoric. I’m happy to be out, and the way Tony is staring at me certainly doesn’t bother me.
When the waiters bring out our stuffed pigeon, he abandons his fork to separate it with his hands. He dismembers the bird’s chest with four pairs of fingers, his pinkies politely arched downward. It seems strange to see him struggling with such a rugged task when he’s dressed so nicely. Suddenly, he pulls out a chunk of shiny, juicy white meat covered in sauce; unexpectedly, he offers it to me. He holds out the piece of flesh with the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, his eyes inviting and suggestive. I do not accept. I say I’m a vegetarian. I’m probably blushing, but I feel like taking that bite would be an acceptance of an indecent proposal. It would be like admitting that, yes, I would very much like for his . . . paintbrush . . . to make some artistic sketch on my practically untouched canvas. I’m not that reckless. Sure, I’m flattered that he finds me desirable, but I suspect he’d treat any female the same way tonight.
When we leave the restaurant, rain has started to fall. Lara runs off to get a taxi with Filippo. Armando suggests after-dinner drinks at a local bar called Tabula Rasa. That name, combined with my knowledge of his bizarre tastes, makes me think it’s a popular spot for small groups of chic radicals—aka pretentious assholes—to drink and languish. Luckily, Tony nixes Armando’s idea.
“I know a great place on Cassia, it’s called Chiodo,” he counteroffers. “They just opened a few months ago. They make great drinks and there’s good music.”
A tremor rocks my chest. That’s where Luca works. I’ve never been there because it’s out of the way—and, to be honest, no one’s ever invited me. Giovanna accepts with unseemly enthusiasm, which Armando doesn’t approve of. But when Tony and I decide to go, he’s forced to go with the flow.
When Tony and I are alone in his car, he seizes the opportunity to ask if he can draw me.
“I swear, you have a terrific face,” he insists.
“The idea of staying still while someone stares at me, focusing on my flaws, embarrasses me a little bit.”
“You’re wrong, you know,” he says. “In a face like yours, when it’s scrutinized, the flaws disappear. You have the exact opposite problem. At first glance, your face seems imperfect, strange, inundated with freckles, but a keen eye will capture the treasure hidden behind the curtain. The big eyes that are the color of chestnut honey, the eyelashes that are so
“It’s so lively and sinuous. I’d love to paint your face. You’re very beautiful.”
Beautiful? I laugh. “It’d end up looking like a caricature of a rabbit.”
“I’ve never seen a face as extraordinary as yours,” he says. “It amazes me that you aren’t aware of that. As an artist, you should be able to recognize the details. Your upper lip is sublime. It’s got a particular curve, like a small wave.”
For a moment, I look at him as if he were wearing a straitjacket. And I feel stupidly excited.
I wonder why, when I do receive a compliment, I’m convinced it’s a shameless lie told for the sole purpose of getting between my legs. Perhaps it’s because no one has really admired me for, like, a century. Maybe it’s because my mother called me this morning to remind me again of Beatrice’s wedding. Or maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Luca pouring alcohol into the glass of some woman who’s willing to give it to him right there, right then, on the bar.
But sometimes it’s nice to pretend I’m not the ugly version of my little sister. Also the red wine, which is full-bodied and fruity, is making me feel euphoric. I’m happy to be out, and the way Tony is staring at me certainly doesn’t bother me.
When the waiters bring out our stuffed pigeon, he abandons his fork to separate it with his hands. He dismembers the bird’s chest with four pairs of fingers, his pinkies politely arched downward. It seems strange to see him struggling with such a rugged task when he’s dressed so nicely. Suddenly, he pulls out a chunk of shiny, juicy white meat covered in sauce; unexpectedly, he offers it to me. He holds out the piece of flesh with the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, his eyes inviting and suggestive. I do not accept. I say I’m a vegetarian. I’m probably blushing, but I feel like taking that bite would be an acceptance of an indecent proposal. It would be like admitting that, yes, I would very much like for his . . . paintbrush . . . to make some artistic sketch on my practically untouched canvas. I’m not that reckless. Sure, I’m flattered that he finds me desirable, but I suspect he’d treat any female the same way tonight.
When we leave the restaurant, rain has started to fall. Lara runs off to get a taxi with Filippo. Armando suggests after-dinner drinks at a local bar called Tabula Rasa. That name, combined with my knowledge of his bizarre tastes, makes me think it’s a popular spot for small groups of chic radicals—aka pretentious assholes—to drink and languish. Luckily, Tony nixes Armando’s idea.
“I know a great place on Cassia, it’s called Chiodo,” he counteroffers. “They just opened a few months ago. They make great drinks and there’s good music.”
A tremor rocks my chest. That’s where Luca works. I’ve never been there because it’s out of the way—and, to be honest, no one’s ever invited me. Giovanna accepts with unseemly enthusiasm, which Armando doesn’t approve of. But when Tony and I decide to go, he’s forced to go with the flow.
When Tony and I are alone in his car, he seizes the opportunity to ask if he can draw me.
“I swear, you have a terrific face,” he insists.
“The idea of staying still while someone stares at me, focusing on my flaws, embarrasses me a little bit.”
“You’re wrong, you know,” he says. “In a face like yours, when it’s scrutinized, the flaws disappear. You have the exact opposite problem. At first glance, your face seems imperfect, strange, inundated with freckles, but a keen eye will capture the treasure hidden behind the curtain. The big eyes that are the color of chestnut honey, the eyelashes that are so
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