take-out / eat in.

by s.m.

As he nipped at the lace of her panties, the intercom buzzed.

“Are you expecting pizza?” Francesca asked him breathlessly.

Paolo scooted out from underneath her.  “Thai, actually.  I was getting hungry,” he said sheepishly.  He ran to the intercom.  “Send him up,” he said to the concierge.

Francesca picked up her trench from the floor and wrapped it around herself, walking away from the door towards the bathroom.

“No, stay here,” Paolo said.  “This is going to be fun.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Let’s surprise him.”  His eyes were flashing with mischief.  “Come on.”  He reached for his wallet and pulled out some bills.  There was a knock on the door.  “Answer it,” Paolo urged her towards the door.  “Leave the coat open.”

Francesca opened the door, peeking out and keeping her body hidden behind the door.  The delivery man was short, obviously not Italian but southeast Asian of some variety, probably their same age.  He held out his plastic bags.  “Food for Mazzari,” he said in heavily-accented Italian.

“Come in,” Francesca said, opening the door wider and letting him inside the apartment.  She let her trench hang open as Paolo had told her, and the transgressiveness of it sent adrenaline coursing through her veins.  The delivery man tried to look away, but kept glancing back, nervously, first to Francesca and then to Paolo.

“You can put the food on the counter,” Paolo said, closing the front door.  The delivery man did as he was told.  “How much is it?” Paolo asked nonchalantly, peeling off Euros.

“Twenty-five,” the man said quietly, looking at the floor.  Paolo walked towards him.

“I’ll make it a hundred if you stay and watch us,” he said evenly.  The delivery man looked him straight in the eyes.  His face was blank.  “Watch us,” Paolo said.  “Thirty minutes.  Just sit in that chair and watch.  A hundred Euros.”

The man looked at Francesca, who was as surprised as he was, she reckoned.  She nodded to him and walked over to Paolo, draping herself over him, arms wrapped around his shoulders.  Paolo leaned into her and kissed her deeply; when he stopped, he looked up at the delivery man again.  The man nodded.

“That chair,” Paolo said, pointing at a black leather Eames chair in the corner.  “Leave your phone on the counter.”

The man retrieved his cell phone from his pocket, an old Nokia that he set on the marble as Paolo directed.  He walked across the living room and sat in the Eames chair.

Paolo turned to Francesca.  “You ok?”  She nodded.  “It’s exciting, right?” he whispered.

She kissed him again, grasping his head with her hands and pulling him into her.  He yanked at the trench coat and she spun out of it, sending it across the floor.