Chapter VII (part 2) - Thomas
842 Words
If there were a standard version of a cafeteria woman, it’d be her.
Maybe it’s The Simpsons’ fault, or maybe just coincidence, but everything about her screams run.
Unkempt look, half-gray hair escaping her cap, tired eyes, thin mustache.
I watch her dump a ladleful of food onto a plate with the grace of a bricklayer spreading cement.
Aurora thanks her and moves ahead to wait for me, while the woman looks up.
“Next.”
I swallow.
My turn.
I’ve been so distracted by Aurora’s body I haven’t even looked at the trays — overflowing with pale copies of what might once have been food.
“Mr. Martini,” she exclaims, showing off very yellow teeth in a smile.
Of course.
I don’t know her, but she knows me.
Like everyone else in this place.
I glance toward Aurora — she’s far enough that she probably didn’t hear.
And I really get the sense she has no idea who I am — and for once, I’d like it to stay that way.
I look down at her name tag. Giovanna.
“Good morning, Giovanna.” I give her my best smile.
“You’ve never done us the honor of visiting before, in all these years.”
She bats her eyelashes, her tone oddly soft — kinder than with the others.
Not surprising: older women tend to have a soft spot for my freckles.
Though in this case, I suspect her kindness has more to do with my father than with me.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance.” I tilt my head slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“What’s your specialty today?”
She scans the counter, bored.
“Pasta with meat sauce, Russian salad, minestrone…”
She says it without a hint of enthusiasm.
I pretend to think, brushing my fingers along my jawline.
“Minestrone? That’s your best shot?”
She hides a smile, trying to stay professional.
“Come on, Giovanna,” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
“I’m sure there’s some kind of special treatment for someone’s first day here.”
This time she really smiles, shaking her head slightly, and disappears behind the curtain.
Even from a distance, I can feel Aurora’s gaze on me — curious, waiting.
Two people have already gone through, and my tray is still empty.
When Giovanna returns, she sets a plate of eggplant parmigiana in front of me — definitely more appealing than the rest.
“Here you go. It’s one of the staff meals — there are always a few left over.”
Her hand brushes mine as she sets it down.
I ignore the instinctive shiver and reply in the same low, playful tone as before.
“Would you happen to have two?” I ask, glancing toward Aurora.
“You know, I wouldn’t want to upset my companion.”
Giovanna shoots her a look — a little too sharp — then turns back to me, softening her expression.
“I’ll be right back.”
She disappears for a few seconds, then reemerges with another plate, which she places next to the first with almost theatrical care.
“Thank you so much, Giovanna.” I wink; she blushes.
I grab some bread — already stale at this hour — a packet of oil, a pinch of salt, and a crème caramel that seems to contain more preservatives than actual ingredients.
I walk over to Aurora. She’s there, waiting, tray in hand, eyes fixed on me.
“You two had a lot to talk about,” she says.
Her tone is impossible to read — ironic? jealous? amused? I can’t tell.
I shrug, pass her without answering, and head for one of the last free tables outside. I drop into a chair; she follows and sits across from me, eyeing my tray.
“Parmigiana? How did you even…”
I arch an eyebrow, giving her a small, knowing smile. “Let’s just say I have my ways.”
“You charmed her?” she teases, narrowing her eyes.
I brush off the accusation with a wave of my hand and slide the second plate toward her.
She looks surprised, then repeats — with a teasing tone — “You did charm her.”
I lean in closer, lower my voice, and lock eyes with her. “Do you really think I could do that?”
Her cheeks flush instantly. I grin, satisfied — my “technique” rarely fails.
“Yes,” she says, meeting my gaze head-on, without hesitation.
And this time, I’m the one who falters.
I’m not used to this. With girls, it’s usually a game — a chase, a fight for control.
This kind of honesty throws me off balance.
I clear my throat and take a bite of the parmigiana — more to shake off the embarrassment than out of hunger.
The sauce is sour, the mozzarella rubbery — yet apparently this is one of their best dishes.
My father was right: the psychological terrorism against the cafeteria was built on solid ground.
- Writer
