Gemotions

The restaurant buzzed with chatter, the low hum a familiar comfort. He’d chosen this place, a little Italian trattoria, for their anniversary. Then she overheard them. Her ears pricked up. *“Come stai, amore?”*

Her fork clattered against her plate. She’d never heard him speak Italian, never. She turned, a slow burn starting in her chest. The waiter looked apologetic, as though he knew he’d stumbled into something.

She watched him, the man she thought she knew, lean back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Bene, grazie,” he replied, and then, in fluent, effortless Italian, he launched into a story. She pushed her pasta around her plate. She hated Italian food, suddenly.