#116
I saw Tom first, walking across the piazza. Was he?…yes, he was wearing a tank top.
Barley is catching up to him, she’s in…she’s in beige linen top to bottom. Both are dressed to suit the heat that is holding steady this late afternoon or is it early evening?
At the table, the waitress, looking tired, hair matted to her face like she’s just woken from a nap, takes an order for four drinks. Chips, a few nuts arrive, but who can eat?
The piazza is filling, the sun has gone behind the stone buildings to the west. It’s busy. It’s a Wednesday.
First off, I can smell Tom from across the table. Second off, do I have a crush on Barley? Both are most likely true.
We have dinner plans later, but I’m tempted to cancel, not just because who can eat when it’s like this, but Tom’s smell.
Me: have you been working today?
Tom: no, why?
Me: no reason.
I knew he owned a small vineyard, but we were far from that.
Me: Where are you guys staying?
Barley: My flat, but, honestly it’s been so hot in there we’ve been out most of the day. Finding shade where we can.
Tom: I took a swim.
Me: I see.
The drinks arrive, and surprisingly, we’ve finished almost all the nibbles.
Tom: I’m so hungry. It’s the heat.
Later, in the car, windows down because that’s the way to deal with situations like this, I hear a hilarious story about going to a pharmacy in Spain to deal with some very out-of-the-ordinary butt issue. All of us are laughing. The greenery of high summer outside, bugs, expiring on the windscreen.
We have a decadent summer meal that ends with bowls of cold, fresh blueberries.
Tom: what a great meal.
Barley: can we go for an amaro somewhere?
Me: I know just the spot.