Read Online White Vespa by Kevin Oderman - Free Book Online

nets, green nets, the floats orange or white where the color had rubbed off. The fishermen were dour until she greeted them, trying out her Greek, kaliméra, and then they smiled and wished her good-morning. However dour they looked before she spoke to them, they always responded.
    She kept on at the back of the harbor, not crossing the old or the new bridge, but taking the street along the dry creek bed that Myles had said led to his cottage above town. The road went up in lovely swings.
    From the drive Anne could see Myles through the open door, standing at the sink, washing dishes. He’d found a long apron somewhere that ended just above his bare knees in a ruffle. They were hairy knees. Anne stood silently in the doorway, watching. Suddenly he was aware of her and glanced over his shoulder, looking a little caught out.
    â€œFetching!” Anne smiled.
    â€œLike it, huh?”
    â€œOh yeah, puts some poetry in those legs that might otherwise be just, like, hairy!”
    â€œI’ve got some pantyhose around here somewhere if you think that’d help,” Myles said.
    â€œMaybe it wouldn’t,” Anne said, crossing over to the sink and kissing Myles lightly on the cheek. His wire rims were a little fogged but she could see he was looking, looking away. She smiled, a shy guy.
    While Anne watched, Myles made two little cups of Greek coffee, made them the Greek way. He measured out a heaping spoon of powder-fine coffee and a heaping spoon of coarse sugar for each of the two demitasses of cold water he’d poured into the copper pot. He stirred it a long time before setting
the pot to the flame, keeping the heat low, to avoid a too quick or too heavy boil. When the coffee rose in the chimney of the pot, he lifted it just high enough off the flame that the coffee held over the lip, caramelizing. Then he tapped the pot lightly with a wooden spoon, poured the thick coffee into the cups, the froth going first. He poured it carefully, to keep the slug of spent grounds mostly in the pot.
    â€œIf, if you like Greek coffee, this should be good,” he said.
    â€œI may require instruction.”
    â€œTo drink it?”
    â€œTo know what to like,” Anne said.
    â€œThat is the hard part, but the best I can do is put a good cup in front of you. That’s good.”
    â€œBut you haven’t tasted it,” Anne observed.
    â€œI don’t need to taste it.”
    â€œWell, I’ll want to taste it.”
    â€œI want to, too. I just don’t need to,” Myles said.
    â€œYou’re pretty confident.”
    â€œAbout coffee.”
    At that, they started laughing. Myles wasn’t sure if he was wading or already in over his head. They still hadn’t tried the coffee.
    Â 
    Anne had taken off the sweater she’d worn out and paced the room in a black leotard and tight jeans, her bare feet skimming the uneven planks of the old floor. Myles was screwing his battered Nikon to a tripod he had only extended to about three feet. He’d hung a white sheet over an old lamp to diffuse the light.
    â€œWhere’s good?” Anne sounded nervous.
    â€œSure you want to do this?”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure. But . . .”
    â€œBut?” Myles asked.
    â€œNo buts . I want to see the pictures you’ll make,” she said.
    â€œTo see yourself?”
    â€œTo see myself.”
    â€œAnne?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œLow expectations are good. I wasn’t kidding when I told you I don’t
take pictures of people, well, not portraits.”
    â€œJust for me?”
    â€œJust for you.”
    Anne grinned, someone young peeping out from behind her habitually hooded eyes.
    â€œSo where’s good?”
    Myles pointed to one of the built-in low couches, the shorter of the two, a confined space, white walls, unpainted and hand-carved woodwork. He perched on a chair behind the tripod, looking through the viewfinder, setting up. He had attached a