Various Helmut Newton photographs adorn the walls—all black and white in identical thick black frames. To my left on the wall between the kitchen and the foyer hangs “Heather Looking Through a Keyhole.” On each side of the entertainment center there is a picture of Linda Evangelista standing on a city street with short hair, one with her leaning into the camera and another where she’s casually smoking a cigarette, both reminiscent of Sophia Loren. On the wall to my right, and to the left of the sliding doors, are two photographs side by side with a couple in each picture: “Woman into Man” and “Fashion Study, Paris, 1975.” To the right of the sliding door is “Kiss,” and behind me, over the wall alongside the dining table is a picture of a woman leaning over a round table, a man’s hand unzipping her dress.
“I hope you like Tom Petty,” Massimo says. He walks to the small bar set up in the corner, just outside the galley kitchen to my left.
“Who doesn’t like Tom Petty?” I respond, my eyes pulling away from the photos and back to him.
“I think most people do. You want a drink? I don’t have Grey Goose but I have Absolut, is that okay?”
“Yes, and yes. Thank you.”
Massimo lifts the bottle of Absolut from the table and takes it into the kitchen.
“I love Helmut Newton photography. You have some really nice ones. The black and white suits you,” I tell him.
“Black and white photography is my favorite; it leaves an element of mystery. There’s room for interpretation when you’re looking at it. What color is the dress or the woman’s hair? Kinda like beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And life is never black and white, ya know?” I hear ice clink as he drops it into a glass.
The more I learn about this man, the more I like him. I stand from my spot on the armrest and pad over to the kitchen’s entryway, leaning on the doorjamb. “I do. It’s one of the same reasons I love black and white photography too. Back in high school, I studied it for two years and spent hours in the darkroom. I wanted to go to the Mass College of Art for photography, but my parents quickly crushed that idea. They said they didn’t want me to be a starving artist, and I should study something that’ll help me in life.”
“What did you study instead?” Massimo asks as he’s grabbing a soda bottle out of the fridge. When he twists the cap off, it makes the signature hissing sound of the pressure releasing.
“At first, my major was Psychology because I didn’t know what to study. After taking a Women’s Literature class, I picked up English as a second major.”
“Did you like it?” he asks while pouring soda water into the glass.
I shrug. “I guess, although I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet, which is why I started bartending until I figure out what I want to do with my life.”
He hands me the drink he just prepared for me. “Sorry, I don’t have any limes.”
“I’ll survive. Thanks.” I take a sip and return to the living room.
Massimo grabs a glass from the counter and goes back to the bar table to pour himself a Jack. When he’s done, he strides over to the couch, sits, and pats the empty space next to him. “Sit.”
Doing as he asks, I sit next to him, lifting my legs onto the couch, tucking them to my left. “What about you? Did you go to school?” I ask.
“Nah, wasn’t for me. My father wanted me to go work with him in landscaping, but I chose to go work at my uncle’s restaurant instead, which is how I got involved in the restaurant business.” He sips at his whiskey.
“How old were you when you started working there?”
“I was sixteen and worked as a busboy on Friday and Saturday nights. When I turned eighteen, I started waiting on tables and learning about the business, eventually bartending and helping my uncle with the ordering and inventory. By the time I was twenty-four, I was the assistant manager and started thinking about opening up my own place. I approached my brother and sister, and that’s how our idea took flight.”
“What’s your idea?”
“We want to have several restaurants around the city. They’d all serve Italian food but will have different specialties. The one we just opened is traditional Italian, with food and wine from all over the country. Our next one, whenever we’re ready to open it, will be in the North End but will have a menu and wine list focused on the Roman kitchen since that’s where our parents are from.”
“That’s awesome.” I swirl the liquid in my glass before drinking some more. “Do you speak Italian?” I ask him.
“Not as much as I’d like to. My parents barely taught us growing up, although I wish they had. Took a few years of it in high school, but you know how that goes.”
“How come they didn’t speak it at home?”
“They wanted us to fit in, be American. They thought that by speaking Italian at home, we wouldn’t blend in.”
“A lot of parents from that generation thought that way. I know a bunch of people who’ve told me the same thing you just did.”
“What about you? Do you speak Spanish?” he asks.
“Yes. My parents were the opposite. We weren’t allowed to speak English at my house. My parents would ignore us if we spoke English to them. Literally, if you asked a question in English, they would stare at you or walk away from you as if you’d said nothing. It was really annoying.”
“Bet you’re glad they did though, because now you’re fluent, right?”
“I am,” I say, nodding in unison with my words.
“Say something in Spanish for me.” He puts his drink down on the coffee table and reaches for me, starts drawing circles with his fingers just above my knee.
“Um, what do you want me to say?” The nerves pool in my belly, and I give my glasses a nudge with my left hand.
“Anything, whatever you feel comfortable saying.”
I look into his eyes and say, “Me gustas mucho y tengo ganas de besarte.”
“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds sexy as fuck.” His hand moves from my leg up to my lips, and he drags his thumb firmly across my bottom lip. I open my mouth and pull his thumb in, swirling my tongue around his finger.
“Jesus, Lena.” He takes the drink from my hands, puts it onto the coffee table, and then lifts my frames off, dropping them next to my glass. He draws me closer to him, and his lips crash into mine. He tastes like whiskey, and his breath is hot. I push my hands into his hair, tugging at its ends. Its thick, ink-black strands are a stark contrast to my olive skin.
I separate from him, resting my forehead against his, and close my eyes, inhaling his unique scent. Before our date, I told myself that I wouldn’t sleep with Massimo tonight, but I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
My body tingles all over, craving him—to touch, taste, and feel him. In the background, Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” is playing. The melody of the music mixed with the vodka I’ve been drinking all night awakens the brave woman within me.
I rise, extending my hand to his. He looks up at me; his eyes are dark, lust burning at their rims, and he stands as well. I walk toward the hall to the left of the foyer, where the bedroom is, holding Massimo’s hand behind me as he follows.