Love in an Italian Diner

Yesterday, he took me out to dinner. It was just the usual. We stared at the menu with intent even if we already knew what we want, vaguely. The lady took our order and then there was silence. The kind that you would want to bask under. He felt the same about the silence, I’m sure.

The forks and knives always go to the side because we always eat with our hands. The little plates as well because we always eat from the bigger plate. We share tea and hold the cup by the mouth. We eat in silence, slouched and elbows on the table.

It’s too easy, comfortable, and very quiet. At worst, the sight might be a crime to some. An eyesore, perhaps. But we continue careful of nothing because this is how we are. Some won’t understand which is a beautiful assurance of what we always knew; that our love is something that only the two of us understand.


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