Love Your Life(15)

A waiter has poured us both wine, and Dutch lifts his glass to toast mine, then turns to face me properly. His gaze is intent and focused, as though the rest of the table has disappeared and it’s just us two.

“So,” he says. “We can’t make small talk.”

“No.”

“I can’t ask you anything personal about yourself.”

“No.”

“The more I’m told I can’t do something, the more I want to do it.” His dark eyes are fixed fully on mine and I catch my breath, because I’m suddenly imagining what else he might want to do. And what else I might want to do.

    Unhurriedly, his gaze unmoving, Dutch sips his wine.

“I’d like to know more about you.” He leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper. “We could break the rules.”

“Break the rules?” I echo, shocked. I feel as though I’m in a nineteenth-century novel and a gentleman has asked if he might write me illicit letters. Dutch laughs, seeming tickled by my reaction.

“OK, you don’t want to break the rules. How about we ask each other just one personal question?”

I nod. “Good idea. You start.”

“OK. Here’s my question.” He pauses, running a finger round the rim of his wineglass—then looks up. “Are you single?”

Something seems to flash through my body. Something joyous and strong and urgent all at once. He is interested.

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely working. “I’m…Yes.”

“Great.” His eyes crinkle at me. “That’s…Glad to hear it. Now you ask me a question.”

“OK.” My mouth flickers into a smile, because we’re playing a game now. “Let me think. Are you single?”

“Oh yes.” There’s an emphasis to his answer which in another conversation I would pick up on—but I’m out of questions.

“So now we know everything,” I say, and Dutch laughs.

“Everything for now. Maybe we ask each other one question every night. That could be our ration.”

“Sounds good.”

We’re interrupted as a waiter comes to give us plates of pasta, and I take the opportunity to gaze at Dutch surreptitiously again, at his strong jaw and dark lashes, and at his tiny endearing crow’s feet, which I didn’t notice before. I don’t know how old he is, I realize. I could ask him tomorrow night. That could be my question.

    But, then, do I care how old he is? No. No! I don’t!

I feel suddenly exhilarated. I feel liberated! I don’t care about the facts or the details or what his profile might be on Match.com. He’s here and I’m here and that’s all that matters.

“Wait, I have another question,” I say, as Dutch turns back from passing the olive oil along. “I think it’s allowed….Where were you this afternoon?” I shoot him a mock-reproving look. “You ditched yoga!”

“Oh. Right.” He takes a forkful of pasta, looking amused. “I’m not a yoga fan, to be honest. I’m more of a—”

“Stop!” I raise a hand. “Don’t tell me! Too much personal information!”

“Jeez!” exclaims Dutch, looking for the first time genuinely frustrated. “How are we supposed to talk, even?”

“We’re not,” I point out. “We’re supposed to write.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Touché.”

“Or, in your case, kick the shit out of things,” I add, and Dutch laughs.

“Touché again.”

I take a mouthful of orecchiette, which is the local pasta. It’s served with greens and rosemary and tastes sublime. But while last night I couldn’t stop rejoicing over the food, tonight I can’t stop rejoicing over this delicious, tantalizing conversation. Or non-conversation.

Dutch is silent for a few moments, munching pasta, then says, “Actual fact, I hired a car and went exploring down the coast a little. There are some coves…nice villages….It was fun.” He swallows his mouthful, turns to me, and adds carelessly, “I was thinking of doing the same tomorrow. You want to come?”



* * *



—

    As we bowl along the coastline the next afternoon, I feel giddy. How has life fallen so stunningly into place? How do I find myself being driven through gorgeous Italian scenery, the sun blazing down, the radio playing, next to the most perfect guy in the world?

I’m trying to take an intelligent interest in the beautiful, stark landscape around us, but my attention keeps being drawn back to Dutch. Because he just gets better and better.

He drives confidently. He doesn’t get stressed out by being lost. Five minutes ago, he asked an old guy for directions in a terrible mishmash of English and bad Italian. But his smile was so charming, the guy ended up summoning an English-speaking woman from inside his house, who drew us a map. And now here we are, at a tiny cliff-top car park, with nothing in view except olive groves, rocks, and the endless blue Mediterranean.

“What’s this place called?” I ask, so that I sound intelligent. (I don’t care what it’s called.)

“No idea,” says Dutch cheerfully. “But the woman knew where I meant. I came here yesterday. It’s fun.”