The Food of Love by Anthony Capella Read Free Book Online

of sweet honey.
    He was on his way to the pasta shop across the square when he
    saw the girl again. Bruno stopped, his heart in his mouth. He had no idea who she was, but he had seen her half a dozen times over the last few weeks, wandering round Trastevere; particularly here in the market, where she seemed to stare longingly at the stalls piled high with dozens of different vegetables: radicchio, cime di rapa, cardoons, bruscandoli - the little green hop shoots that
    appeared in the market for just a few weeks in springtime; borragine, barba difrate, even lampascione, hyacinth bulbs, and of
    course the baskets filled with tenerume, the first tiny courgettes, each one tipped with a veined, sunset-coloured flower. He had
    never seen her buy anything, though. Once he had been close
    enough to see that she had in her hand a plastic carrier bag containing a jar of Skippy peanut butter, from a food shop on the
    other side of the market that sold imported stuff. From this he
    deduced that she was American or Australian, and that she was
    homesick sometimes for the tastes of her own country. But the
    way she looked so hungrily at the piles of unfamiliar vegetables made him long to cook them for her, to show her what she was
    missing. Once he had got as far as walking up to her and saying, ^Buongiorno? but the moment she turned to him, those wonderful grey eyes lighting up with interest as she waited to see what he would say, he lost his nerve and pretended he simply needed to
    reach past her for some tomatoes. ^Scusi^ he had mumbled, and
    she’d stood back to let him pass.
    Today she was wearing a white halter top. He stood and drank
    in the way her shoulders were dotted with orange-red freckles
    beneath the swirl of blonde hair, like a scattering of chilli flakes.
    For a moment, with the clarity of hallucination, he could almost taste her in his mind, imagining on his palate the salty smoothness of her honey-coloured skin, will talk to her, he thought. I’ll give her the asparagus. I can always buy some more.p>
    His mind made up, he started towards her; but he was just a
    moment too late. The girl had turned and walked away.
    Bruno watched her go. On the other side of the market there
    was a row of tiny shops, each barely larger than a doorway - a
    minuscule hardware shop, a pharmacy, a shop selling nothing but
    olive oil and another selling lingerie, all packed into about ten yards of street. The girl stood in front of the display of lingerie for a moment, then pulled open the door and walked inside.
    Bruno stopped short. What are you doing, you fool? he cursed
    himself. She already has a boyfriend. A lover, in fact. Why else would she be buying lingerie? And what on earth made you imagine that a girl like that would be single in the first place? He turned, heartsick, and went back to his shopping.
     
    Laura loved to walk around Trastevere, the district where she was staying. According to the guidebooks it was a slightly seedy place, a working-class enclave in the heart of the Eternal City, but she loved the down-at-heel vibrancy of the cobbled lanes, barely wide enough to accommodate the Romans’ miniaturised cars. The
    Mystic Dread Rock Steady Reggae shop stood shoulder-to
    shoulder with a shop selling power tools, while the grandly named Institute of Sympathetic Shiatsu was a door crammed between a
    pharmacy and a booth selling lottery tickets. Furniture workshops stood cheek-by-jowl with churches; orange trees competed with
    restaurant parasols for every square inch of sunlight; and the herby odour of cannabis mingled with the smells of fresh coffee and pizza. In the squares and open spaces battered cars were parked in random chaos, like frozen traffic snarl-ups from which the drivers had simply walked away, and bright red splashes of geranium
    trailed from every window ledge and doorway.
    One day soon after her arrival she had found herself passing a
    little shop. The window display was barely larger than a closet, but it