Page 25 of Casanova LLC

I reentered the bedroom, and she was in the midst of lifting her sweater off. As she slid it over her head, I had the instinct to turn away, to give her privacy. But surprisingly, she didn’t yank it back down to cover herself. She finished the job, then simply let it hang from her hand. So I faced her, as if she hadn’t removed it at all.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you’d like an espresso before I go?” My eyes snagged on a strand of hair curling at her throat, water dripping from its end down into the valley of her breasts. Breasts contained by a simple white cotton bra: another haunted memory I swept away as quickly as it came. I forced myself to look in her eyes, but I wasn’t seeing them; I was seeing the seared afterimage of damp cotton and flushed porcelain slopes.

“No, thank you.”

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

The image cleared. “If there’s anything you want, just text.”

“I will.” She smiled. “Was there something else?”

“No,” I said. Yes, I thought, I want to know what’s under your leggings. “Just don’t let the bath get cold.”

She gestured at her half-clothed body. “I don’t plan to.”

What if there was nothing underneath but her?

“I’ll leave you to it. Then.”

So leave. Then.

So I did.

* * *

I entered the kitchen on the piano nobile and the nice little fantasy I’d indulged in during the trip downstairs evaporated when I saw my uncle sitting at the breakfast bar. I acknowledged him with a nod, which he didn’t return. He had poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle I’d opened earlier for cooking and he brought it to his lips. And watched me.

I took the bottle and put it back by the stove. Busied myself with food preparation.

He remained silent.

So did I.

I took some garlic cloves out of a jar, peeled and chopped. Then washed my hands and brought a charcuterie platter that I’d made earlier out of the fridge. I set it on the counter.

He examined it. Moved a candied walnut back into alignment.

Silently.

I left the kitchen, went into the dining room, grabbed a bottle of champagne from the rack, and turned back to see that he’d followed me in. He was leaning against the doorframe.

Watching me.

That was it.

I held the bottle up between us like a dagger. “Don’t.”

The face of a monk. “What?” He took a sip of wine. A long sip. “What would I have to say? As if I have something to say.”

I thunked the champagne down on the dining room table. “Go ahead.”

“With what?”

I scoffed. “Just get it over with.”

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