maybe we’ll go to Eataly.
She would never get used to the bright sunlight streaming into Paolo’s bedroom. It woke her early every time, while he seemed entirely immune to it. On weekends, Paolo seemed to be able to sleep forever, while she would always want to get up, make coffee, have breakfast, read the newspaper. She liked having a routine. Paolo’s routine seemed to be predicated on only doing what he absolutely had to do, only when necessary. Not that he didn’t think about things–that wasn’t it at all. He just needed prodding, sometimes, to get started.
She watched him sleeping. Impossibly, he was still tanned–maybe it was just his southern Italian roots–and his dark skin glowed bronze against the crisp white sheets, his arm outstretched over the duvet, one leg peeking out from the covers. Sometimes she just wanted to touch him, and feel his hardness and smoothness, his muscles and his silky hair, his warmth. She had never been so attracted to anyone. She ducked under the sheets to look at the rest of him, admiring his sweet, sculpted ass and the definition of his thighs.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled, swiping at the top of the duvet.
She sprawled across his chest, lifting the covers to tuck him underneath with her. “Looking at you,” she said.
“Weirdo,” he replied, burying his hands in her hair and dozing off again.
She tried to sleep but was restless; instead she got out of bed and made herself a cappuccino. It was early, a little after eight o’clock. She picked up the paper from outside the front door and flipped through it quickly at first, grateful to see no mention of Paolo and Thai delivery, then settled into the couch to read it fully. Every so often she would look up and see the Eames chair and feel the heat rising to her cheeks remembering the night before. When she had read the entire paper (even the sports section, though the pieces about Juventus were only general) she made another cappuccino for herself and one for Paolo, and she ascended the stairs to his bedroom.
“Get up,” she said, tickling the back of his hand.
He opened one eye and looked at her skeptically.
“I brought you coffee, come on. Let’s go to the Balon today.”
He sat up and reached for his mug. “You have a milk mustache,” he told her.
“So lick it off me,” she said. She was still wearing his shirt from the night before. He leaned across the bed and traced her upper lip with his tongue.
“What do you want at the Balon?” he asked.
“I don’t know, just to look around, I guess. I always find something at antiques markets.”
“Only if we can go to Eataly afterwards,” he said, grinning.
They showered together, ate some fruit that Paolo had in a bowl on the counter, and dressed to go to the antiques market. Francesca had brought her usual clothes–skinny jeans, a slouchy sweater, and riding boots. When she put on her trench coat to walk out the door, Paolo stopped her.
“I don’t know if I can look at that coat the same way again,” he said.
“It’s the only coat I brought,” she said, smiling. “You’ll just have to deal with it.”
“I may just have to fuck you at the antiques market,” he said, closing the door behind them.