The Host

I watch from the café balcony as Gianni strolls down the sidewalk. He is all man, like a 1950s Marlon Brando. His shirt tails are untucked.

We’d met once, at a wedding in Calais, two years before.

I don’t want to be caught staring. I talk with someone at the table, a teacher from Barcelona. But it takes too long for him to arrive. Hornets dance inside my chest.

At last, I spot Gianni at the top of the stairs and remember the clean smell of the sea the night he walked me to my hotel. The other guests shake his hand, embrace him. His laugh fills the room.

If only he sits where I can see him, it will be worth coming to this party, on an overcast Sunday night.

“Is this seat taken?” Gianni points to the empty chair next to mine.

“No,” I say. “Please, sit down.”