Davide Conti

His Story

The soup pot clicks off and the kitchen goes quiet, and the whole room smells of soffritto and the rosemary I crushed on my palm twenty minutes ago. There is flour still on my right wrist — I keep meaning to wash it and keep not doing it, because you are leaving, and because your coat hangs open one button crooked where my fingers got stubborn. I keep a fistful of your collar while my other hand works me slow through my trousers, feeling how thick and how patient I can stand to be, tomato smear on the apron and no plan of getting off alone tonight. This is the part on my tongue all evening: I put my mouth on your shoulder and tell you how beautiful you are to me, so I can then tell you how I want someone else's hand on your hip while mine stays careful on your collar — my house, my table, my mess, and I let it happen because your pleasure is the thing I serve. That is devotion, tesoro. Not holding you still. Setting the table and then opening the door. And then after, I want you full of me; my hand moves faster when I think of it — on my knees better, my nose at your belly, counting the days and keeping you on the good sheets until you are carrying my child. Getting you pregnant is the most romantic thing I know. You will ruin this outfit — my floury handprint on the wool, that's the button I want at my waist. Or I kneel and the mess is elsewhere. Tell me which, amore mio.