Page 84 of The Pairing

They’re wearing those tan work pants, the ones that make them look like they spend all day working a steam-powered letterpress. Their shirt tugs at the broadest points of their shoulders and nips in at the waist. As they bite off the corner of a cornetto, their brows go down and then up, from investigative to pleased.

We’re traveling with a third now: the mutual understanding that sex will happen again. That I get to choose when, and how. Every moment is syrup-sticky with intent and anticipation, sitting heavy on my palate, tasting likethemoment.

I have a plan, though. I was up late in my little Florentinehostel bed designing the right moment, picking the right place, and we won’t reach it for another two hours, so I have to wait. Theo deserves it.

I force myself to stare at the paper cups of coffee Theo put in my hands. Both are dark, one black, the other a shade lighter. Theo finishes shoving euros into their hip pack and takes the darker coffee from me, cornetto flakes swirling through the hot morning air.

As we set off through a narrow alley toward the Duomo, I ask, “You take your coffee black now?”

“Ever since I started having coffee with my somm every day,” Theo says. “This is how he takes it. I have a theory it’s the source of all his power.”

“The Somm . . . is it still the same guy? The one with the ponytail and the tattoo of a rat smoking a cigar, and the—”

“The leather dusters, yeah.”

“Same pastry chef as well?” I ask. I liked the old one.

“Nah, there’s a new guy, but he’s not as good,” Theo says. “Your order’s still the same, right? Little cream big sugar?”

I smile. It’s an old joke, something I mumbled once when I was too tired for English, the kind of thing that sticks.

“Little cream big sugar,” I confirm. Theo’s mouth angles into a satisfied smirk. They take another bite of cornetto, revealing an orange jam at its buttery center. “What’s the filling?”

“Albicocca,” they say in a muffled Super Mario Italian accent. They swallow and translate, “Apricot.”

“Black coffeeandthey know Italian? Wow, the Bourdainification of Theo Flowerday,” I say, failing to pretend this doesn’t turn me on. I would fuck Anthony Bourdain at any stage of his life and we both know it.

“Yes, like Tony I’ve picked up all the food words and swears from working in fine dining. Vaffanculo!” A passing Italian teenager whips around. “Not you! Scusa!”

We turn onto another tight street, buildings with the samegolden-brown walls and green shutters as the last one and the ones before that. Tourists and taxis and men on scooters crowd the road and the high, cobbly sidewalks, but what dominates the view is the massive structure looming ahead at the street’s opening, the side of a cathedral so broad and tall it eclipses the world beyond. A sliver of brick dome peeks out like a red crescent moon.

Theo holds up their pastry, matching its crescent shape to the dome.

“What’s the difference between this and a croissant?”

“A cornetto has eggs in the dough,” I say. “Croissant dough is all about the butter. That’s why croissants are flakier, and a cornetto’s texture is more like—”

“A brioche,” Theo notes.

“Right,” I say, smiling. Maxine did say they’d been un bon étudiant. “Can I try? I’ve heard apricots are sweeter in Italy.”

Theo passes the cornetto to me, and I taste, letting the compote touch every part of my tongue.

“Theyaresweeter,” I say. Theo’s looking at me with amusement. “What?”

They untuck their sunglasses from their shirt pocket and slide them on.

“You remember what you were doing in that dream I told you about?”

The dream about me eating them out on a restaurant table in Barcelona? I’d sooner forget how to make a baguette.

“Yes.”

“Well, in my dream, you ate an apricot too.”

Theo grins and takes off running toward the piazza.

When I’ve pulled myself together enough to catch up, they’re standing before the cathedral with their head craned back. Their grin has spread into the silent, incredulous laugh usually reserved for a particularly good stunt in a Fast & Furious movie.

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