The Taste of Her Name
617 Words
It was the way he said it.
Not loudly. Not often. Not like it was something he needed to possess.
But like it was something he was still learning how to say—slowly, reverently. Like a prayer.
Anindya.
The first time he said it aloud, it startled her.
They were walking through the southern slope of the vineyard, the sun still soft, vines humming in the late morning breeze. He had offered to accompany her—no reason given, no business agenda. Just two people walking where grapes grew sweet and shadows stretched long.
She was describing how to check for overripe clusters when he said it.
“Anindya.”
She turned.
It was the first time he’d spoken her name aloud.
Not Miss Santoro, not you, not girl or worker. Just her name. Bare, unwrapped.
She blinked. “What?”
He shrugged slightly, eyes still on the vines. “Just wanted to know how it tasted.”
“Tasted?”
He glanced sideways at her. “On my tongue.”
She turned away, but a faint color warmed her cheeks. “It’s not a difficult name.”
“It is,” he said. “Because it means something.”
She looked at him then, fully.
“And what does it mean to you?”
He stopped walking. Turned. Faced her.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’d like to find out.”
⸻
After that, he kept saying it.
Sometimes when they passed each other.
Sometimes at the dinner table with Nonna Rosa, where his voice softened so slightly it made her hands still on her fork.
Sometimes in the vineyard, where the workers pretended not to notice but always glanced their way when his voice wrapped around her name like silk.
And every time, she felt it.
A pull.
A soft undoing.
⸻
One afternoon, while she was sorting grapes in the cool cellar, she heard footsteps. She didn’t need to turn to know it was him.
“Anindya,” he said from behind her.
She closed her eyes for just a second.
“You say my name too much.”
“I say it just enough.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m tired of being the only one shaken.”
She turned.
His sleeves were rolled again, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair unruly in the best way. And that look in his eyes—the one that wasn’t hunger, wasn’t arrogance—just… intensity. The kind that spoke of wanting, yes, but not just of the body. He wanted her mind. Her presence. Her truth.
She held her ground.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already writing poetry about me in your head.”
He stepped closer. “Would you be angry if I was?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she turned back to the grapes. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“You should focus on your vineyard, Signor Beaumont.”
He moved beside her, close but not touching.
“I am,” he said softly.
She looked up, breath catching.
And that was it—nothing more.
No kiss.
Just his voice, her name, and the kind of silence that made the heart ache with almost.
⸻
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The candle flickered. The wind whispered her name as if it, too, had heard it in his mouth.
Anindya.
It had never sounded like that before.
And somewhere in the dark, she whispered his name back.
“Maximilian…”
Like a secret.
Like the beginning of something dangerous.
And beautiful.
- Writer
