Letters To Rome

9

By the time we get back to his place, the sky has already softened into a reddish, warm late-afternoon color. 

Lorenzo unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in.

This isn't my first time here. The faint smell of his cologne is still stuck in the air, mixed with the smell of fresh basil and the sound of the roaring city behind us. Still, something feels different the moment I cross the door. Everything feels heavier. Quieter. Like the air itself is waiting.

He doesn't say anything at first. He drops his keys into a dark glass bowl by the door, kicks off his shoes, and heads straight for the corner of the living room where his vinyls are stacked. He flips through them with the ease of someone who knows exactly what he's looking for.

I watch him from where I'm standing, arms loosely crossed, my bag still hanging from my shoulder.

"What are you doing?" I ask, half amused.

"You'll see," he says, already sliding one out, "a-haaa!"

The music starts to fill the apartment. He chose old Italian jazz. I guess he's an old soul? It felt warm, low. I started to feel like I was in one of those black-and-white movies. The reddish light coming from outside the tall windows made it cozy.

My eyes move around the room, then back to him. He walks into the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, pulling things out of grocery bags I remember all too well from the market earlier. Tomatoes. Pasta. Olive oil.

And it clicked.

Oh.

I shift my weight, trying not to stare. For a second, I honestly wonder if he's expecting someone else. If maybe I've walked into something I wasn't supposed to be part of. The idea tightens my chest in a way I don't really love.

Then he glances back at me and smiles, "What do you feel like eating?" he asks.

I let out a small laugh, more breath than sound. "So I guess I'm the dinner girl."

He pauses just long enough to really look at me. "Wasn't it obvious?"

Something about the way he says it sends a warm flutter straight through my stomach.

He turns back to the counter. "I'll make you my family's traditional pasta recipe. It's been in my family for years," he says,  cracking an egg with one hand while looking at me, "That okay?"

"Yeah," I say quickly, my eyes smiling. "More than okay."

I drop my bag by the couch and sit down, tucking one leg under myself. I have a perfect view of him in the kitchen as he's preparing tomato sauce that smells heavenly. 

I find myself watching his hands more than anything — the way he chops, the way he tastes the sauce, the way he pauses to think before adding something else. Small details I didn't know I cared about until now. 

He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "You judging me?"

"No," I say immediately. "Just... observing."

He smirks. "Hmm, dangerous."

*

It doesn't take too long to finish cooking dinner. He sets the table and adds the finishing touches to the plate. How is this man good at everything he does?

"Ready!" he calls over.

We sit across from each other, our knees brushing under the table. The food is better than I expected — rich in taste and comforting, I could taste every single ingredient.