Soft Love

 

He never asked how old she was, but she wore the still fresh-faced look of late youth.  They met almost by accident and soon began to sit at the same table in the same small coffee shop.  Seemed like months ago and probably was.  He never asked her where she lived or what she did.  Instead, they talked about neutral things like music and art, both of which she knew little about.  But, she expressed a curiosity that he admired. 

 

One day she looked a little sad.  “Lost my job,” was all she said.

 

Then he did something he had never done. He took Tommisa to the south of France and onward to the Italian Rivera, where he treated her as if she were his daughter and she pretended to enjoy chatting with him more than with the rich and strikingly handsome Italians who flocked around her on the beach.

 

What was this all about?  Damned if he knew.  He had no pretentions of lasting love, or love at all for that matter.  Tommisa had grown up in the middle of America and he had the bright idea to give her a glimpse of the world.  He was well travelled and could show her views she’d never imagined.  His attraction to her was not about seduction.  Had he looked at her with the eyes of a lover, he would have been ashamed of himself.

 

He took her to Venice and Florence.  They shopped in expensive shops and he told her about Leonardo and the Renaissance.  Part of Tommisa’s education.  Real education, not something presented as interestingly as wet gravel, by an aging professor who was bored because his ego was broader than his knowledge and the things he knew so well had grown tiresome. 

 

You can’t understand the power of David by looking at a photo, or the taste of wine from a Iowan wine bar in place of an ancient trattoria with moonlight glimmering across the slowly flowing Arno, without seeing the waiters in black and white livery speaking the soft tones of Italian, and matching your taste in wine after listening to you only once.

 

They went shopping on the Ponte Vecchio and she had such fun searching for the perfect gold bracelet, slender and gleaming.  He insisted on having her purchase the matching necklace.  

 

He taught her phrases in Italian and she learned more quickly than she thought she could.  “I hated school,” she told him.  Of course she did, he thought.  After the elementary level, school compresses a wealth of knowledge into a rotting corpse that kills the desire to learn like a beetle squashed under the heel of a boot.

 

He let her do the ordering now and at first the waiters smiled indulgently.  Soon, however the smiles turned to respect.

 

One day, out of the blue, she said, “I really can’t stay too much longer.” He saw the look of sadness and tried to brush it off.

 

“I know you can’t, but this has been wonderful.”  He followed with a happy smile, although sadness crept through him like an adder about to strike.

 

That night she crept into his bed and curled around him.  “You don’t have to,” he whispered.

 

“I know that.  But, I want to.” 

 

He saw it as the only way she knew how to thank him.  “You are a beautiful young woman,” he whispered, kissing her lightly on the top of her hair.  Should he give in and accept her passion, he knew it would be the end and he didn’t want it to end.  “I always want us to be friends and not an episode you’re afraid to tell your family. By the way,” he asked, “what did you tell your family?”

 

She laughed.  “I’m thirty years old.  I do what I want. But, to satisfy your curiosity, I told them I was going to Europe.  Now, are you going to let me stay here next to you, or not?”  She said it with a soft laugh, and kissed his neck.

 

“You’re thirty years old.  You can do what you want.”

 

“I want to stay another month, if it’s ok with you.” One hand slid from his chest up to caress his cheek.