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We descend into a synchronized system of plating food, neither of us taking a leading role. I’m not exactly sure what he ordered. It isn’t my usual sweet and sour chicken, but it looks divine, and there isn’t a prawn in sight.
Once my plate is full, I take it over to the far side of the island. Gianni sits diagonally opposite me and begins to eat. I try to study him without staring. I watch how he holds his cutlery, his fork gripped in his left hand, and his knife held at an angle. He eats with modesty. He isn’t a pig, and he isn’t a noisy eater.
“How long were you married?” The question springs from my mouth between forkfuls of rice. Gianni stops eating, his eyes flickering from his food to an empty space in front of him. I am not sure if I’ve overstepped the mark, but the question has been playing on my mind. He pushes his tongue across his front teeth before answering.
“I was married for two years.” He regards his food, his fork teases some rice, pilling it onto the end, then shaking it off.
“I don’t mean to pry. I was curious,” I apologize. “You don’t look old enough to have been married.”
“I’m older than you think.”
“That depends on how old I think you are,” I say. I push some chicken across my plate. “I’d put you in your late sixties at least.” The corner of Gianni’s mouth rises. I feel a little sense of triumph.
“I’m thirty-three,” Gianni reveals. “I was married at twenty-eight.” I quickly do the math.
“That’s only a year older than I am now. I can’t imagine being ready to tie the knot next year. Had you been together for a long time before that?”
Gianni stands quickly, the stool vibrates across the floor, and I flinch. It’s quite clear he doesn’t want to talk about his marriage, but I can’t help it. I want to know, and what better time than now when he has trapped himself in my house.
He goes to the glasses cabinet and grabs two tumblers from the shelf. He takes them over to the sink and fills both with water before returning to the island. He slides a glass down to me, and I take it, grateful for a chance to wash out my mouth and, hopefully, my infernal questions.
“We’d been together less than a year.” He gulps the water and places the glass back down on the side. “I liked her, and things were okay, but then she told me she was pregnant.” He stares at me, and I try not to respond. I don’t want him to see my shock. A child? I can’t imagine Gianni as a father. “So, I did the decent thing and married her, but it turned out to be a false alarm.” He sits back down and picks up his fork. “Is there anything else you wish to know?”
I gulp hard. There’s a shitload more stuff I want to know, but I’ve pushed him to the limit. I shake my head and return to my food.
“What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“What’s your history?” I blink, wondering what he’d do if I told him all about me.
“I don’t really have a history. Nothing that would make for interesting dinner table conversation.”
“I beg to differ.” My hand pauses in midair, the atmosphere suddenly dropping. Does he know? He can’t possibly know.
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t believe you have not attracted the attention of any men in your twenty-seven years. Or do you prefer women?”
“I’ve had a few boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious.” I’m relieved at his direction, but I can’t be truthful. I’ve struggled with relationships. There have been few since I met Carl.
“And why is that?” he asks. A turbulent silence follows the question. Because I’m emotionally scarred? Because I can barely live with myself, let alone someone else? Because I’m not who you think I am?
“I haven’t met anyone serious enough.” I return to my food, and thankfully, Gianni does the same.
We finish eating and clear away in comfortable silence. Gianni makes coffee, tutting while expressing his dislike for household machines. I offer him something stronger, but he declines, telling me he doesn’t drink. I wonder why. Does there have to be a reason? I don’t ask him because I think he has already given away more of himself than he would’ve liked.
Gianni follows me into the lounge. I turn on the lights, and Gianni stops by the doorway. The lounge is big and spacious. A huge domed glass window sits in the ceiling, letting a stream of light into the room during the day. At this time of night, it looks like a black void. The floor-to-ceiling glass doors in the kitchen continue at the far end of the room. The outside lights highlight the garden and the land beyond the house. A long, white leather sofa spans the entire back wall on the left of the room, and the light oak floor complements how much light and space there is. I know the room is impressive from my friends’ reactions in the past, but none of this is what made Gianni stop. Above the sofa, there are five framed paintings.
He holds his coffee, his eyes glued to the wall. He steps further into the room, examining them one by one. I move a magazine from the coffee table and slide myself onto the end of the sofa. My presence is an intrusion. He’s lost in the paintings.
He walks the length of the room, giving each picture his undivided attention, his coffee steaming and untouched in his hand. The five paintings are all famous structures from influential cities around the world in what could only be described as the style of modernism. The colors explode, and the lines are bold and definitive. They are striking as well as daring. But I can only see their faults.
“These are yours.” It should be a question, but he knows the answer. I blush slightly.
“Yes, all mine,” I reply. “I did these for my dad’s fiftieth birthday. They are places he has visited and fallen in love with. He wanted them immortalized.”
“They are…” He doesn’t finish. Instead, he sits by the window in one of two free-standing chairs that are wonderful to sit in when the doors are fully open. I’m not sure whether Gianni sat there to avoid sitting next to me or so he could look at the paintings.
