Chapter 11
We'd compromised on an Italian place on Taylor. I accidentally got off the El at the wrong stop, and the taxi driver, though he spoke little English, was loudly annoyed that I only needed to go half a mile. I gave him a dollar tip, which seemed to satisfy him.
My heart leaped when I saw Craig waiting outside the restaurant. My reaction surprised me. Until that moment, I hadn't cared whether I ate lunch alone, or with him. I was surprised again when he took me by the waist and kissed me. But I didn't kiss him back.
"You're embarrassing me."
"No one's here that knows you. Anyway, I'm happy to see you." He held the door for me and let the waiter take us through to the back, where he apparently had a table reserved. It was well away from other tables. A small loaf of bread and serrated knife waited on a wooden cutting board. As the waiter held my chair, I held my hand over the bread, and felt the rising warmth.
"I thought we were only meeting for coffee," I said.
"That, plus anything else you want. You can't sit down in here without them bringing you the fresh bread. Very Italian, this place." He picked up the slender bottle of oil and held it out to me.
"What's that for?"
"Olive oil. For the bread." His mouth formed an 'O' of understanding. "This is how they do things in Italy. Or at least in Italian restaurants." He poured a pool of oil into a little plate. He tore a small piece from the loaf with his fingers, dipped it in the oil, and held it to my lips.
"Hmm. Tastes good," I said, chewing the bread slowly. I'd cooked with olive oil before, but I'd never thought of having it with bread.
When I finished, he had another shred of warm bread ready, wet with oil. I remembered my resolve to be cool toward him. I'd vowed not to let myself be drawn into his vortex. But now I had an itch between my legs, and he was the one who knew best how to scratch it. This time, when I took the bread into my mouth, I reached with my tongue and licked his fingertips as I had the week before. I looked into his eyes and gave him my most seductive smile.
The Italian coffee came, a small amount in the bottom of a cup, looking dark and ominous. The waiter set a pitcher of hot milk beside the cups.
"It can be bitter," said Craig. "Some of us Americans like to add milk." He added some to his own coffee. "Take a sip, and if it's too bitter, add some milk."
"I guess you've spent some time in Italy?" I sipped, made a face, and filled the cup with steaming milk.
He smiled and shook his head. "Afraid not. Everything I know about Italy, I learned right here on Taylor Street."
He ordered from the menu in something even I knew was very bad Italian. The waiter rolled his eyes and left.
"Not to rush things," I said, "but you had something to tell me about my scholarship."
"In a way." He stared for several seconds at a poster of an Italian village. "You know that the scholarship doesn't cover living expenses, right?"
