Will You Still Look at Me That Way When the Wine Wears Off?

August 14th I’m writing this on a legal pad I stole from the nightstand because I can’t find my phone, and honestly, even if I had it, a text feels too small. A text has no weight. It doesn’t have the scratch of a pen. It doesn’t have the risk of someone finding it. It’s seven in the morning in Greve in Chianti, and the sun is already aggressive—it’s a high-wattage tungsten flare hitting the terracotta tiles, the kind of lighting that makes everything look cleaner than it actually is. It hides the fact that my hair is a disaster and that there’s a distinct salt-stain on my inner thigh where you dried. You’re down in the courtyard. I can hear the rattle of the metal crates as you load the empty wine bottles. You move like a man who knows exactly how much space he takes up in the world, and watching you through the shutters, I’m trying to reconcile the guy who taught me how to emulsify a carbonara with the guy who had his teeth buried in my shoulder four hours ago. *** Last night, the kitchen smelled like rosemary and heavy-duty degreaser. The air was thick, humid enough that the flour stuck to the back of my neck like a second skin. You were standing at the head of the long marble island, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows. You didn’t have the soft hands of the chefs I see in Los Angeles; your forearms were corded, scarred by heat and steel, and you looked at the group of us—six tourists looking for ‘the authentic experience’—with a sort of polite boredom. Until you got to me. “Pasta is about friction,” you said, and you weren't looking at the dough. You were looking at the way I was holding the wooden rolling pin. You walked over, the heels of your boots heavy on the stone floor. “If you don’t give it resistance, it won’t hold the shape.” You stood behind me. You didn’t ask. You just reached around, your chest brushing my shoulder blades, and placed your hands over mine. Your skin was hot—not just kitchen-hot, but a metabolic heat that felt like a localized weather system. Your palms were rough, calloused in the right places, and you pressed down, guiding my hands in a rhythmic, rolling motion. “Like this,” you whispered. The others were laughing, arguing over their bottles of Vermentino, but the sound felt like it was coming from another room. “Harder, Signora. Don’t be afraid to hurt it.” I couldn’t breathe. Every time we pushed forward, I felt the hard line of your thigh against my hip. You knew what you were doing. You weren’t just teaching me a technique; you were checking my pulse without ever touching my wrist. *** The coffee here is too strong. It’s like a punch to the throat. I’m sitting at the small table in my room, looking at the way the light catches the bruises on my hips. They look like thumbprints. They are thumbprints. You held me like I was something you were trying to break open, and as I sit here, trying to be a person who takes a 'literary' approach to life, all I can think about is the specific sound of your belt buckle hitting the floor. You’re looking up now. You’ve stopped with the crates. You’re wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, squinting at the villa windows. I wonder if you’re looking for me. I wonder if this is a sequence you’ve shot a hundred times before with a hundred different women who came here to find themselves in a bowl of pappardelle. *** By ten, the others had drifted off to their rooms, drunk on sangiovese and self-satisfaction. I stayed behind to ‘help clean,’ a lie so transparent it was practically a window. You didn't even pretend to believe it. You just watched me stack the plates, your hip leaned against the industrial sink, a cigarette unlit between your lips because the instructor—your father, I assume—doesn't like the smell in the kitchen. “You should go to sleep,” you said. You didn't move. “I’m not tired.” “No. You’re something else.” You walked toward me then. It wasn't a movie walk; there was no slow-motion, no soundtrack. It was just the sound of your boots and the hum of the refrigerator. You stopped inches away, smelling like sage, tobacco, and sweat. You reached out and brushed a stray bit of flour from my eyelash with your thumb. It was so tender it felt like a threat. “Your eyes have been on me all night,” you said. Your voice was low, a grainy baritone that vibrated in my chest. “Even when you were eating. You were tasting me.” I didn’t deny it. I couldn't. I reached out and curled my fingers into the front of your apron. I pulled you closer, needing to close that gap, needing to see if the heat I’d been feeling was real or just the wine. When our mouths finally hit, it wasn't a soft introduction. It was a collision. You tasted like the bitter espresso and the sharp edge of the grappa we’d finished, and your tongue was a demand I was more than happy to meet. You hoisted me up onto the marble table—the same one where we’d spent three hours kneading dough. It was cold against my bare thighs, a shocking contrast to the fire of your hands. You didn’t waste time with buttons. You reached under my skirt, your fingers dragging upward, hooking into the lace of my underwear and simply pulling it aside. “You’re so wet,” you groaned against my neck, your breath hitching. “I knew you would be.” You found my clitoris with your thumb, rubbing in those same rhythmic, heavy circles you’d used on the pasta. I arched my back, my head hitting the tile backsplash with a dull thud, my fingers clawing at your hair. You were relentless. You watched me as you did it, watching my face go slack, watching my eyes roll back as the first wave of a climax started to build in the pit of my stomach. Then you stopped. Just like that. I gasped, my breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. “Don’t—don’t stop.” “Look at me,” you commanded. You reached down and unzipped your trousers. Your cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the skin dark and veined, already glistening at the tip. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. You didn't use a condom—you didn't even ask—and in that moment, in that kitchen, I didn't care about the consequences. I just wanted to be filled by you. You grabbed my knees, pulling them wide, and guided yourself in. You didn't go slow. You lunged forward, burying the full length of yourself inside me in one heavy, sliding motion. I screamed—a sharp, high sound that echoed off the copper pots hanging from the ceiling—and you caught the noise in your mouth, kissing me hard, your tongue deep as you began to move. You were a machine. Each thrust was deliberate, hitting my G-spot with a precision that made my vision blur. I could feel the friction you’d talked about earlier—the heat building between us, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet, messy friction of your cock sliding in and out of my cunt. The flour on the table acted like a grit, a tiny abrasive that made every touch feel electric. I wrapped my legs around your waist, locking my ankles, pulling you deeper. I wanted to feel you in my throat. I wanted you to leave a mark that wouldn't wash off. “Tell me,” you hissed, your hands gripping my ass so hard your nails dug in. “Tell me what you want.” “Everything,” I sobbed. “I want everything.” You flipped me over, pressing my face down into the cool marble. The smell of flour was everywhere. You entered me from behind, your hand reaching around to find my clitoris again, your thumb working me while your cock hammered into me. The angle was perfect. Every thrust felt like it was reaching further, stretching me, claiming me. I felt the orgasm coming like a freight train, a total loss of control that started in my toes and shattered through my entire body. I was shaking, my muscles seizing around you, and that was when you let go. I felt the hot, thick pulse of your cum filling me, burst after burst, a heavy warmth that settled deep in my womb. You collapsed on top of me, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against my spine, both of us covered in a fine white dust and the scent of ourselves. *** The letter is getting long, and the sun is higher now. I can see you talking to an older woman by the gate—the one who brings the eggs. You’re smiling. It’s a different smile than the one you gave me when you were sliding your hand up my thigh. It’s a ‘good morning’ smile. It’s a ‘business as usual’ smile. I’m a screenwriter, did I tell you that? In my world, this is the part where the music swells and we have a montage of us riding a Vespa through the hills. But this isn't a movie. This is a Tuesday morning in a country where I don’t speak the language well enough to ask for more than a napkin. I can still feel you inside me. Not just the ache, but the actual physical weight of you. I wonder if you can feel me. I wonder if, when you touch that marble table today to start the next class, your skin will remember the way mine felt under yours. I’m not going to send this. I’m going to fold it up and put it in my suitcase, and when I get back to my apartment in Echo Park, I’ll find it months from now and remember the way the rosemary smelled. I’ll remember the way you looked when you realized I wasn’t just another tourist looking for a recipe. You’re looking up at the window again. You’re staying there a second too long for it to be an accident. You know I’m here. You know what we did. And God, I’m so hungry again. Not for the pasta. For the way you held the knife. For the way you looked at me like I was the only thing in this whole valley worth tasting. See you at breakfast. —Me

Will You Still Look at Me That Way When the Wine Wears Off?

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