The Italians would say... "Mi Dispiace."
WHO: Ivan and Emiliana
WHEN: October 13th, Late Evening
WHERE: A Four-Star Italian Restaurant at the Intersection of Pearl St. And Harbor Ave.
WHAT: It was meant to be an apology for events that transpired two weeks before, but it turns into a melancholy.
His tie was too tight. Or his scarf was too tight. His hands were too tight around the bouquet, and he wondered for the slightest moment why he brought a bouquet in the first place. Sunflowers, no less: golden leaves protruding from green stems wrapped in white tissue paper, weeping petals onto the polished wood floor.
The restaurant seemed to empty, but the low murmuring of candlelight conversation seemed to say otherwise. He sat, improperly of course, with his right leg propped against the front most leg of the chair, his left leg extended under the table-skirt, body slack in the chair, one arm folded across his chest, and the other lax at his side with that heavy bouquet kissing the floor. A song played distantly over the speakers.
Ivan let the arm resting on his abdomen reach forward, his forefinger drew damp circles along the lip of his water glass. Condensation wept along the glass, then he looked through the curved glass and saw a distorted figure approached from the distant doorway. He looked up, immediately recognized the waiter-escorted Latina, and got to his feet to properly greet her.
The Muscovite wore almost all black and white, white sleeves provided a relief from the tight black vest around his stomach as tight as a corset (so it felt to him) and a small peek of white just above the belt line of his ebony slacks. The Russian wore his scarf still, as always, dutifully draped over his shoulders as the two stood awkwardly close to the table.
He outstretched the sunflower-wielding hand to present the bouquet; an apology - well, he should've given her white tulips to stick with the proper flower language, but the yellow helianthus seemed entirely more appropriate to relieve from the plain-colored wardrobe of the Russian.
"Dinner is on me. Please order anything you'd like. I already ordered wine... the waiter called it 'Ama... rone...', I think..." A smile.
WHEN: October 13th, Late Evening
WHERE: A Four-Star Italian Restaurant at the Intersection of Pearl St. And Harbor Ave.
WHAT: It was meant to be an apology for events that transpired two weeks before, but it turns into a melancholy.
His tie was too tight. Or his scarf was too tight. His hands were too tight around the bouquet, and he wondered for the slightest moment why he brought a bouquet in the first place. Sunflowers, no less: golden leaves protruding from green stems wrapped in white tissue paper, weeping petals onto the polished wood floor.
The restaurant seemed to empty, but the low murmuring of candlelight conversation seemed to say otherwise. He sat, improperly of course, with his right leg propped against the front most leg of the chair, his left leg extended under the table-skirt, body slack in the chair, one arm folded across his chest, and the other lax at his side with that heavy bouquet kissing the floor. A song played distantly over the speakers.
Ivan let the arm resting on his abdomen reach forward, his forefinger drew damp circles along the lip of his water glass. Condensation wept along the glass, then he looked through the curved glass and saw a distorted figure approached from the distant doorway. He looked up, immediately recognized the waiter-escorted Latina, and got to his feet to properly greet her.
The Muscovite wore almost all black and white, white sleeves provided a relief from the tight black vest around his stomach as tight as a corset (so it felt to him) and a small peek of white just above the belt line of his ebony slacks. The Russian wore his scarf still, as always, dutifully draped over his shoulders as the two stood awkwardly close to the table.
He outstretched the sunflower-wielding hand to present the bouquet; an apology - well, he should've given her white tulips to stick with the proper flower language, but the yellow helianthus seemed entirely more appropriate to relieve from the plain-colored wardrobe of the Russian.
"Dinner is on me. Please order anything you'd like. I already ordered wine... the waiter called it 'Ama... rone...', I think..." A smile.