Italian. Sexy, but not greasy. Sophisticated… but not French. Solid, but not stodgy food. We’ll do Italian.
Tucked away in a small, wealthy English town, early evening trickling into the late night, the scent of a damp summer hanging like a sultry singer over the wire mesh of a micro-phone.
It’s that time.
Two glasses. Rose pinot grigio – light, yet fruity, fresh. Not overpowering, but seductively sophisticated.
Spaghetti – with calamari, mussels, herbs, could that have been an oyster? Who knows. Using the spoon- you know what to do Andre.
Not exactly candlelit, but it retained the same ambience, curling round the relaxed ebb and flow of familiar conversation.
Pepper met salt in the light streaks of rich hair. Tired eyes flickered to life behind frameless glasses. A soft smile, a furrowed brow – you know what to do Andre, this is the perfect dinner for two.
Just the two of us. Getting to know each other again. Except the roles are reversed:
This time Mum, I’m paying.