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Authors: Lucy Lacefield
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is right up her alley; it’s a chunk of Italy—at the base of campus. Most people come here for a semi-formal occasion, or anniversary I suppose. I’m sure even some for a first date.
Jenny introduced it to me and my parents the day we moved me into my apartment, and were all too tired to think about cooking. My parents loved it. My dad thought Jenny was a saint; guiding me right to some good decisions about getting life started here. First the apartment, now the best little Italian restaurant he’d eaten at in years. With a stomach full of spaghetti, I could tell he was feeling more and more at ease about me being here on my own—with Jenny. Anyway, since then we manage to eat here about once a month when we’ve had an especially long day—just getting back from breaks and into the swing of things seems to be a regular, for one of those days.
She says some things in Italian again to the waiter and all I can pick up is “. . . Guido . . . “
A moment later he’s returned with bread and oil.
“I ordered for us,” she says, dunking a torn off piece of bread into the oil and motioning for me to dig in.
“Thanks. You’re sure you told him only marinara sauce, not meat sauce this time?” I ask, reaching in the basket for a slice of warm bread.
“I told him last time too—he just got it wrong.” I laugh at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smile and keep tearing my bread, swiping it in the oil. She probably did say it right. She’ll never admit it though if she didn’t, which completely amuses me. I think the one thing that bonds us more than anything else is our stubbornness.
At any moment I expect her to delve into an inquiry about. . . Dane. Even thinking his name heightens something in me. I’d prefer getting through most of our meal though before she does begin asking questions. I decide to direct conversation for a while, as long as I can anyway.
“Did you get through your classes unscathed?”
“ Me? It’s the little shits you should be worried about. I’ll say it a thousand times—why would anyone want to be a teacher?” She rolls her eyes and gestures to the waiter to get our water glasses refilled.
I spend half of my time entertained by her. “They’re not that bad,” I jibe.
“Not that bad! Who sedated you?”
I pass my glass to be filled. My smile is stuck. I could have the worst day and get near her energy and forget even why I was feeling that way to begin with.
“Okay, your Pollyanna optimism is your strongest trait—I’ve come to accept that,” she allows jokingly, seeming all but put-out forking her spaghetti to spin against her spoon. “But today you’re almost skipping—and we can’t have that. So spill, fess up about the runner with legs up to my neck. What’s his name? Mundane?”
So she did notice.
dane
I don’t even want to study. I just want to lay here looking up at the ceiling thinking about her. I’ll give myself thirty minutes to rest and get composed—then I’ll have to hit the books. . . no matter what.
She grips me. And for some reason I don’t mind. It’s not worth it to mention it to anyone; I don’t know even enough about her yet. All that I do know is I feel alive inside and out near her, like a man— protector , not like anything I’ve ever felt before. And yet, there’s a resistance to her—I can’t understand it—at the same time, a want in her eyes. I know it. I saw it. She’s just so damned vulnerable —it consumes me. God —I’ve not thought about it the last couple of days—maybe she has a boyfriend . But I don’t see it . There’s no way someone that timid. . . she’s just too shy. I close my eyelids picturing her. . . the gentleness in her movements, the sweet way she says things. . . and how when I looked for that brief moment into her amber eyes. . . what I saw, transfixed me.
I’ve got to get out of here and go for a run .
I grab my keys to the apartment off my dresser and lock up, making my way
Jenny introduced it to me and my parents the day we moved me into my apartment, and were all too tired to think about cooking. My parents loved it. My dad thought Jenny was a saint; guiding me right to some good decisions about getting life started here. First the apartment, now the best little Italian restaurant he’d eaten at in years. With a stomach full of spaghetti, I could tell he was feeling more and more at ease about me being here on my own—with Jenny. Anyway, since then we manage to eat here about once a month when we’ve had an especially long day—just getting back from breaks and into the swing of things seems to be a regular, for one of those days.
She says some things in Italian again to the waiter and all I can pick up is “. . . Guido . . . “
A moment later he’s returned with bread and oil.
“I ordered for us,” she says, dunking a torn off piece of bread into the oil and motioning for me to dig in.
“Thanks. You’re sure you told him only marinara sauce, not meat sauce this time?” I ask, reaching in the basket for a slice of warm bread.
“I told him last time too—he just got it wrong.” I laugh at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smile and keep tearing my bread, swiping it in the oil. She probably did say it right. She’ll never admit it though if she didn’t, which completely amuses me. I think the one thing that bonds us more than anything else is our stubbornness.
At any moment I expect her to delve into an inquiry about. . . Dane. Even thinking his name heightens something in me. I’d prefer getting through most of our meal though before she does begin asking questions. I decide to direct conversation for a while, as long as I can anyway.
“Did you get through your classes unscathed?”
“ Me? It’s the little shits you should be worried about. I’ll say it a thousand times—why would anyone want to be a teacher?” She rolls her eyes and gestures to the waiter to get our water glasses refilled.
I spend half of my time entertained by her. “They’re not that bad,” I jibe.
“Not that bad! Who sedated you?”
I pass my glass to be filled. My smile is stuck. I could have the worst day and get near her energy and forget even why I was feeling that way to begin with.
“Okay, your Pollyanna optimism is your strongest trait—I’ve come to accept that,” she allows jokingly, seeming all but put-out forking her spaghetti to spin against her spoon. “But today you’re almost skipping—and we can’t have that. So spill, fess up about the runner with legs up to my neck. What’s his name? Mundane?”
So she did notice.
dane
I don’t even want to study. I just want to lay here looking up at the ceiling thinking about her. I’ll give myself thirty minutes to rest and get composed—then I’ll have to hit the books. . . no matter what.
She grips me. And for some reason I don’t mind. It’s not worth it to mention it to anyone; I don’t know even enough about her yet. All that I do know is I feel alive inside and out near her, like a man— protector , not like anything I’ve ever felt before. And yet, there’s a resistance to her—I can’t understand it—at the same time, a want in her eyes. I know it. I saw it. She’s just so damned vulnerable —it consumes me. God —I’ve not thought about it the last couple of days—maybe she has a boyfriend . But I don’t see it . There’s no way someone that timid. . . she’s just too shy. I close my eyelids picturing her. . . the gentleness in her movements, the sweet way she says things. . . and how when I looked for that brief moment into her amber eyes. . . what I saw, transfixed me.
I’ve got to get out of here and go for a run .
I grab my keys to the apartment off my dresser and lock up, making my way
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