Bella Monica
He nods towards a table between the hibiscus
and other flowering plants,
a bit more removed from the racket of passing cars,
the tiny music of forks tapping porcelain dinner plates.
Her eyes spy artwork for sale
hung across mustard-colored walls.
He wants Amore: flatbread
covered with baby spinach,
sliced tomatoes,
melted feta and provolone.
She searches for something more exotic:
can almost taste the tumbling of arugula
and gorgonzola dripped in a vinaigrette
of pear and thyme. Or perhaps
the portobello lasagna,
its cream sauce surrounding
layers of spinach and mozzarella
to go with a glass of good white wine.
But he insists on the flatbread
and places her menu aside,
doesn't catch the shrug
or her wandering eyes.
Tab plus tip: $31.95. Or a bargain
for pride—unaware the real cost
of ordering the pizza was her
disinterested sigh.
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