She orders in Italian, then tells me, “I ordered us a red blend that I had last week. It’s so good. Not too dry, but not sweet. A little fruity, but not too much.” Her passion is clear, and I can’t help but smile at it.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” I said. “I trust you.” A weird thing to realize is true, but it is, and I am somehow not surprised.
The waiter is back before we can even begin to have a conversation, and I think Marina has some pull here. The staff all seem to know her, and the waiter chats with her in Italian while he opens the wine. When we each have a glass and he’s left to give us time to look at the menu, Marina holds up her wine.
“To a lovely day, a lovely wine, and a lovely lunch companion,” she says, and the words are genuine and heartfelt, I can tell by her face.
I smile at her and touch my glass to hers, and we both sip.
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s fantastic.” The wine is exactly as she described, and I take a second sip.
We don’t need much time with the menu, as we both choose the Caprese salad pretty quickly, then have a little laugh about it. Marina also orders us some bread with olive oil for dipping, and when the basket arrives, it’s warm and carries that wonderfully yeasty scent that tells you it’s fresh.
“So.” Marina pulls a small, very battered notebook and pen out of her bag. “Let’s talk about what you like.” She clicks the pen with her thumb.
“Old-school notes, huh? I’m surprised.”
“Yeah? Why?” She picks up her wine and looks me in the eyeas she sips, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.
“I don’t know. I guess I just assumed somebody your age would be all digital. Phones, tablets, things like that.”
“Somebody my age, huh? How old do you think I am?” She seems more amused than affronted, and her eyes twinkle. “Or maybe I should ask howyoungdo you think I am?”
“I would guess thirty-five,” I say, and those dark eyes go wide.
“Yes. You are exactly right. Wow. Impressive.”
“Did you think I’d guess too high or too low?”
“Too low.” She laughs softly. “You talked like I’m still in high school.”
“I apologize,” I say, both of us grinning. “I just meant you’re a lot younger than me.”
“Am I?”
I snort another laugh. “Um, yes.”
“How old are you?” she asks and leans closer, looking me in the eye.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask, and I lean toward her, and yeah, this is definitely starting to feel a lot like flirting.
“Oh, no, that question is a trap,” she says with a laugh, wagging a finger at me.
“But you asked me the same question,” I whine in protest.
“Yes, but that’s because you very nearly insulted me.” She’s grinning, so I know she’s just teasing me.
I laugh and say, “Fair enough. I’m forty-nine.”
Marina waves a hand and makes a pfft sound. “You’re young.”
I make the same sound back. “On what planet?”
“This one. You are as young as you feel,” she says.
“Then I must correct my earlier response. I’m about eighty.”
She laughs outright, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard it. I’ve seen her grin, I’ve heard her chuckle, but this? No, thisis new to me. She throws her head back and lets loose a husky, throaty laugh that’s so beautifully contagious, I have to join her. Several customers at other tables clearly feel the same way.
