don’t know, but I don’t think she’s been in Europe all that long. Her accent and word choices are still American.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
She blinks, pausing next to a fruit stand. “In Europe or Italy?” But she doesn’t wait for me to answer, instead launching into a story. “Came after I graduated high school. Guess it’s been a little over a year now.”
I choke a bit and cover it with a cough, praying I didn’t just wander into trouble. “You’re a fucking teenager?”
She smirks, amused that I’m bothered by her age. “No, I didn’t come immediately after school, doofus. I’m twenty-two. How old are you, anyway?” She looks me up and down and I wonder what she sees.
“Thirty.”
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, unconcerned. “Not so much about the numbers. More about the life. I’ve met kids with old souls and elderly folks with young spirits.”
She stops at a bread stand, picking a loaf and complimenting the dark-haired vendor on his selection today. “I hate that I missed the honey-crusted cornetti though. Maybe save me just one tomorrow? I’ll be by before I head to work, I pinkie promise.”
Her request is kind, not syrupy, and to my surprise, he nods, telling her he’ll save her one. Italian bakers are not known for their patience.
As we walk away, I stop.
She turns back to me, eyes questioning. “How do you do that? Why do you do that?”
Her brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Just . . . that.” I point back to the bread vendor who’s watching us with a smile.
No, not us. Her. Watching her with a smile. I snarl at him, and he jumps, turning away, but I hear Carly’s laughter, tinkling and bright in the evening air.
“Mostly by not doing that. I just talk to people, smile, and be friendly, you know? I’m alone in a foreign country, have been in one of those cages I told you about for far too long, and now I want to experience . . . everything. So, I talk to people. It’s not rocket science.”
She smiles and starts walking again. And just like everyone else in the market, like everyone who sees her . . . I can’t help but follow.
It may not be rocket science, but I think it’s fucking magic. I shouldn’t want to be near her, should be running the other way as fast as my legs can carry me, but she’s magnetic, weaving some witchy magic that I can’t help but respond to.
Too soon, or not soon enough, I’m not sure, we come to my small apartment without my even realizing I’d led her here, and she calmly invites herself in. It’s stark and empty, more of a pitstop than a home. She makes a cursory glance around and says nothing before heading straight to the kitchenette. Pulling the supplies we’d gathered out of the paper bag, she makes herself at home and gets to work.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I sit in one of the two chairs at the eat-in kitchen table and watch her for a moment. Her dark hair swishes as she moves, catching the dull light of the bare bulb and turning it into caramel. She’s humming to herself, talking to the food like it’ll respond.
“Oh, yeah, going to be so good!” she whispers to the pot as she stirs something I can’t see but smells delicious. She moves efficiently, reminding me of her sidewalk performance act, graceful but crisp.
The space is so small, she barely needs to take even a step, but I’m still entranced, my throat going dry as her hips sway back and forth in a fetching rhythm, powered by some internal beat that makes my own pulse start to keep time with her.
“Tell me about your cage,” I suddenly blurt out to keep my mind from going places it’s not quite comfortable going yet. It’s a bit out of nowhere, but she doesn’t miss a beat, knowing that I’m returning to our earlier conversation.
“I grew up with parents who had certain rules and expectations,” she says, her hips not stopping at all and still drawing plenty of my attention. “Lots of them. Do this, don’t do that. Be this, don’t be that. It was kind of like being a Barbie doll they played with. It was a pretty life. It’s not like they were beating me or locking me in closets. And on the surface, I mean . . . I had material things that most