The price to pay

Chapter four

""Obsession is the natural enemy of the rational mind."

Stephen King

I try to recover from the news.

Her voice sounds so far away as she is talking to me about her life in Myanmar, about how she studied hard for her finals and how she cried when they told her mother that she got 100/100 in her exam and it was because of the human qualities that she had taught her.

I hear everything, of course.

But it is as hearing someone with my head under the water.

Why would she want to leave?

She has insisted on paying for this time, and she forced my hand down as I attempted to ask for POS to pay with my credit card; she had wrinkled her nose and stared at me with concern, saying that it made no sense to use my credit card for a three euros and forty cents transaction.

No matter what I say, she has it.

I notice how she controls her coins before handling them to the waitress, a quick glance as she decides to change the euro for another of the same value.

"I always look at coins to make sure they're not rare," she explains.

Do they have euros in Turkey?

"That's nice."

Can she even dress like this in Turkey?

I stare at her shirt, at her cleavage, and I wonder if it is safe for her to go, by herself, to a foreign country where perhaps someone might take advantage of her.... No, looking like that, someone will for sure take advantage of her.

And I can't stop it.

She wraps her brioche, which she had not even touched until this moment, and she stands up:

"I'm going to take the bus, where is your car?"

Why would she want to leave this early? She has barely even spent some time with me, and she has already decided I am not worth of her time?

"Time flew," I reply, ignoring her question.

"Yes, I did not want to steal too much of your time, you were kind enough to already want to meet up," she waves her hand slightly in front of me, I want to grab it and hold it, "I would have hated to leave and not seeing you at least once."

She cares.

She cares about me enough that she would hate to leave without seeing me.

She was worried about taking my time, which she considers precious, and use it selfishly.

Rita, my sweet girl, she should not be caring about those insignificant things, she should not feel obliged to respect my time when we have so little to spend together.

I start walking towards the bus stop, wondering how many more precious minutes I am going to have before losing the opportunity to talk for who knew how long?

I see her taking a bite of her brioche, she closes her eyes and paralyzes for an instant, then nods her head yes and chews, it is almost a pornographic scene to watch her eating and I cannot help but to think of it.

"This is amazing..." she murmurs, she shows me with a simple gesture of her hands the pistachio filling and asks, "do you want to try?"

No, you can't.

"Yes, thank you."

Rita offers me her food, the same food that was on her lips and that stained the corner of it with a green dot, and as I taste the creamy filling, perceiving every sweet and salty note, I stare at her and her smile.

"It's delicious."

"See?"

As I swallow, I am about to ask her more about the trip to Turkey, as I am already allowing my mind to travel into planning a surprise trip there in my next vacation time, perhaps a long weekend, as I am sure she would be happy to see me... I have never been to Turkey after all, it could be an experience.

How could I justify with Anna though?

Anna... I forgot entirely about my girlfriend....

What am I even thinking about?

I have a girlfriend, a loving partner since six years ago, and I cannot afford to lose my relationship over a woman whom I have fancied for thirty minutes, especially not one who will leave the country in less than a week.

I'll let her go.

This is what I wanted, after all.

"Marco, look."

I overcome the shock of hearing her calling my birth name, as I notice what she is pointing: a cherry petal, and another one, as the wind blows, falling over us. Rita smiles, she reaches one of them and I see we have unconsciously walked under her cherry tree.

She quickly gets a cherry petals crown and my fingers are quick to catch them, caressing her hair with what I hope is a soft touch; she is holding her brioche, looking at me and I feel her breath against my neck, slow, paced.

"Grazie," she whispers.

"You're welcome."

And I cannot help but to lower my thumb, erasing the green paste from the corner of her mouth.

I curse mentally, knowing that this is the closest to a psycho behavior I have ever experienced, and quickly regret my daring touch; when I find the courage to see her reaction, I stumble upon her teeth gently biting her lower lip.

"My bus is almost here... I must go."

"Yes, of course."

She stares at the ground and then back at me:

"It was lovely to see you again, Pisani."

I watch her walking away, as she takes the bus and I regret not having invited her on my mother's car to take her home, to know where her home is, and as I see her leaving, I know that my heart is not cured from its disease.

When I drive home, I know Anna is going to be at my apartment, warm, showing me whatever her and her mom bought, telling me that her mom says hi even if we both know that it is a lie, warming my bed and cooking my food.

Everything comes back to be the same.

As it should have been.

I can call myself satisfied in the way today was handled, and I promise myself to let go of her, to let go of Rita and the feelings that my heart so self-centeredly does not want to forget.

Green pistachio paste on my thumb... I almost forgot about it.

In the secrecy of my parking lot, I observe the stubborn green dot, covering my finger almost at a microscopic level.

It was on her lips.

Now it's on my thumb.

Curious.

I place the thumb on my tongue and taste again the salty and sweet flavor, and I allow myself to deepen in the obsession I will now encourage my heart to have... yes, now it does not hurt anymore.

Placing my phone near my ear I hear my childhood friend, Lucio Maragno and I simply ask:

"Hey, Lucio... can you ask your dad a favor?"

She won't leave me.