He taught Italian. That was all I knew about him.
He sat in the Cathedral, coffee in hand, staring at me. Every morning, Monday through Friday, I'd see him there. I'd be studying, trying to milk the most from the precious time between my morning graduate class and the afternoon class I taught. I loved being there, the morning light filtering through the stained glass windows would make me feel mystical. Perennial.
He watched me. I'd sit at an old wooden table, and he at another just diagonal from mine. He made no efforts to hide his appraisal. I'd blush, fastidiously trying to keep my eyes on my books and not on him and his steamy, sun-kissed olive skin. My own eyes hopelessly trying to avoid his brilliant russet eyes and curly dark hair. After the first week of this routine, I thought about finding a new place to study but the feel of his eyes on me varnished my skin and made me glow.
During the second week of the term I found myself standing behind him in the coffee line. I heard him laugh, a light but husky laugh, and say to the barrista, "Si il miglioree". I had taken two semesters of Italian in undergrad, but I'd be damned if I knew what it meant. I cornered my friend, an Italian major, later that day to question her. I described the man who was now haunting my thoughts. "You must mean Giovanni," she replied, "He's one of those 'Italian' Italian professors. The real deal."
Two weeks later, that was still all I knew of him. Our routine seemed comfortable. Familiar. On Wednesday, our eyes met. In my ever present clumsiness I dropped my book. He rushed over to help me retrieve it. His hand met mine as we scoured the floor. It rested there for a heartbeat and our eyes met. I felt as if every vein in my body had busted, every drop of blood rushing in a tsunami of beat and breath. "Thank you," I uttered.
"Prego, luce mia," he replied, the accented words rolling from his tongue.
