Bella Monica
He leads toward a table between the hibiscus,
two removed from the racket
of passing cars,
the tiny music of forks tap porcelain plates.
Her eyes spy artwork for sale,
Booker originals-
hung across mustard-colored walls.
He wants Amore: flatbread
covered with baby spinach,
sliced tomatoes,
melted feta and provolone.
She searches for something exotic:
the tumbling of arugula-
aged gorgonzola dripped in a vinaigrette
of pear and thyme. Or perhaps
portobello lasagna,
a rich cream sauce surrounding
layers of spinach, with
a glass of crisp white wine.
But he insists on the flatbread
and places her menu aside,
he doesn't catch the shrug
or her wandering eyes.
Tab plus tip: $31.95, a bargain
for pride—unaware the real cost
of pizza is her
disinterested sigh. |
