Wet

I look around, absorbing my surroundings. I want to etch every detail of this surreal experience, of my weekend away from my real self, indelibly onto the surface of my brain and hold it there forever.

There are no open tables here; instead, round slabs of dark wood are secreted away into the cozy, horseshoe-shaped booths of buttery worn leather, booths so private that our waiter can’t even be seen until, suddenly, he is there. The wood is covered with floor-grazing checkered cloths, just exactly as I’ve seen in hundreds of movies over the years, and fat white tapers drip wax, slow and sinuous, down the side of the green Chianti bottles that they sit in. Their flames, so delicate, stutter as we breathe, and the reds of the fire remind me of Susan’s ruby, so vibrant and bright. When I inhale, the heady scents of garlic and oregano tickle the insides of my nostrils. I’m sure that the smells will cling to my clothing after we leave, to my skin and my hair, but right now Italian cooking is at the top of my list for seductive scents, so I can’t say that I much care.