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The food is magic, as always. Walking into this place was the best decision I ever made.
There is another Finnish saying that I am repeating to myself today as I polish off my pizza. It means:the brave eats the soup.
Romano & Bianchi is a haven for me, and I don’t want to ruin it with awkwardness. But if you want to eat the soup, as they say, sometimes a man must take a risk. If I want to have a real date with Chiara, I’ll have to ask for it.
My English will never be good enough, so I don’t think I should wait for that. Besides, there is something between us—I can feel it when she smiles at me. It’s there, whether I know the right words or not.
The next time I see her, she brings the salad.
“Chiara, I have a question for you,” I say. “It’s about the weekend. How do you feel about sports?”
She shrugs, giving me an amused look. “I like sports, but I’m better at watching them than playing.”
“That is fine. I wondered if…”
I do not even get the sentence out when the surly man—his name tag says Stefano—arrives at Chiara’s side. To my horror, he clamps an arm around her waist and kisses her on the mouth. “Honey, table twelve is sat.”
The expression flickering across her face is pure annoyance. “Territorial much?” she snaps, and I make a mental note to look up that word later. “Sorry,” she says to me, sidestepping Stefano. “I’ll be back with your pizza in a few minutes.” She hustles away.
And as he turns to follow her, Stefano gives me a smug look over his shoulder.
That bastard. He’s dating my girl. I want to punch him, I really do.
If she were dating a nice man, would I be so annoyed? No.
Okay, I would still be annoyed. Just a little less. Because I waswrong. I thought there was an attraction between us.
I saw something that was not there.
Fuck. Another useful English word.
I have the worst urge to put money on the table and leave the restaurant before I eat my lunch. Except I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. And I don’t want Chiara to know that I’m upset.
It takes me a couple minutes to calm down. But after a while I realize that the jerk did me a favor. He put on his arrogant little show before I actually made a fool of myself by asking her out.
At least there’s that.
When she returns with my pizza, she asks, “I’m sorry. What were you asking me? About sports?”
“I do not remember,” I say. “Sorry.”
She looks disappointed, or maybe it is my imagination.
When she brings me the almond cookies at the end of my meal, they don’t taste as good as usual, either.
NOVEMBER
When I leave my new apartment and get into the elevator, I meet our goalie, Silas.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Good game last night.”
“Thank you.” Itwasa great game, too. I played well against Minnesota, my old team. So well that afterwards, a journalist stuck a microphone in my face and asked me how I felt about the game. “Good” is all I managed to say.
My hockey is coming along, but speaking English to strangers still makes me nervous.
The elevator drops us both in the lobby, and we head for the front door. “Do you like pizza?” Silas asks suddenly.
“I love pizza.” It’s like he read my mind.
