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“You cannot be serious.”
“I'm not in the habit of lying.”
“But that doesn't make any sense!”
“For whom? I told you, you made yourself useful.”
“How?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Well, I really wouldn't want to accidentally stop being useful right now,” she responds immediately and, the moment my mind confirms that she really said that, I actually laugh.
Another rare thing that, in years, I don't remember anyone other than Gabriella being able to get me to do.
“You can be carefree about that. Let's order,” I say, and Gabriella looks at the menu in front of her. She takes it and opens it, I do the same, although I don't read any sentences, busy observing how the girl interacts with the object.
She makes a pout with her lips before moving it from side to side and then catching her bottom lip between her teeth. She folds her lips into her mouth, amused.
“I don't know what to choose.”
“You didn't even try.”
“My Italian is still not good enough to understand more than half of the things written here,” she explains, and I'm about to play teacher with a satisfaction that shouldn't exist, when she raises this sensation to the tenth power with just a few words. “Can you choose for me, please?”
I narrow my gaze at Gabriella. It's not possible for her to actually act this way without having any idea what she's doing. All I find on her face, however, is anticipation for my response.
“I can, Gabriella. I sure can.” She smiles at me at the confirmation in yet another unexpectedly grateful gesture, and for some reason, my face thinks it's a good idea to smile back.
***
The girl moans and closes her eyes as she takes the first portion of pasta into her mouth. She's making this terribly easy and unexpectedly difficult at the same time.
“This is amazing!” She states when she opens her eyes.
Gabriella takes some pleasure in saying how she feels about everything, apparently, even though her face, most of the time, tells the story before her words.
Between ordering and the dish arriving, she told me about her day, how uncomfortable the sandals she's wearing are and how she loved the velvet diadem on her head. She also told me that she’s started reading a book today, which she is very excited about, because it is her first reading in Italian and that, despite having taken hours to read a single chapter because she constantly had to consult a dictionary, she is loving the story.
I didn't ask her any of that. She's practically leading the conversation herself and doesn't seem at all bothered aboutdoing so. There is something fun about this. The tricky part is the involuntary gestures. The sensual looks, the embarrassed giggles and all the times when, without realizing what she's doing, she simply gives up control.
Sex has never had much appeal for me, other than exerting dominance, but this girl takes the concept of sex appeal to a completely different level. I stretch my arm across the table until I reach her face. Gabriella stops breathing, as she has a habit of doing when I enter the same room as her, and I wipe some food from the corner of her lips.
“Thank you,” she says shyly before putting the fabric napkin to her mouth, which she told me, also without me asking, that she learned from watching soap operas. I nod, and she points her fork toward my plate. “Is yours good?”
“It is.”
“You're not a very easy person to talk to.”
“I thought we were having a conversation.”
“You barely talk,” she comments and shrugs.
“I'm a good listener. Most people don't want to talk, they just want someone to listen to them.”
“I want it” she says, placing the fork on the plate. “For you to talk, I mean. You didn't tell me anything about yourself.”
“Are you telling me I'm bad company?” She makes a pout with her lips, hiding her smile. Then, her hand rises showing her fingers, index and thumb very close to each other. Laughter erupts in my throat immediately, and I look away to the ocean below us.
