The concierge at his building knew her and let her in the front door; he smiled at her approvingly, looking at her hair piled high on her head, the cat-eye liner on her eyes, and the length of her legs stretched from the hem of her trench to her tall Givenchy shoes. She rode the elevator up to his flat with her heart racing. It had been almost three weeks.
The distance from the elevator to his front door felt like a hundred meters, and the sound of her heels on the wood floors echoed through the hallway. Surely he would know it was her. Finally, she reached his door and knocked, three efficient raps.
She heard him moving inside, turning down the volume on the television and walking towards the front door. Like a man, Paolo opened it without looking through the peephole.
Francesca stood before him, leaning against the door jamb. He was speechless.
“Open my coat,” she said, walking towards him into the apartment. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back into the living room. She could tell he hadn’t been expecting her; he was wearing baggy Juventus sweatpants, black with a team crest and Nike swoosh embroidered just below the hip, a plain white v-neck tee that clung tantalizingly to his chest and biceps, and at least a day of stubble on his face. “Go ahead,” she said. “Open it.”
[after this: take out / eat in.]