Gemotions

The restaurant was packed, the air thick with the smell of garlic and oregano. Marco, her boyfriend of a year, had chosen the place, a tiny Italian trattoria tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. But it wasn’t the restaurant that made Sofia’s chest feel tight. It was Marco, chatting amiably with the waiter in surprisingly fluent Italian.

She’d grown up speaking Italian, it was the language of her family, of her childhood memories. And here was Marco, butchering it, mangling the grammar, yet somehow getting by. It felt… wrong. She felt exposed, as if he'd peered into a part of her she'd kept carefully private.

He turned back to her, smiling brightly. “So, the waiter says they have the best lasagna in the city!” he announced, his voice booming slightly. She fumbled with her napkin, suddenly finding the table a lot more interesting.