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.