Sunday, half past nine. Your kitchen still smells of onions and thyme, and through the wall your husband Theo is pouring the last of the Barolo and telling the Kessel audit story with the wrong number in it.
Gianmarco carries the plates in, because he carries the plates in now. He sets them by the sink without a sound and then does not leave. He stands in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, sleeves rolled, jacket over his forearm, and looks at you the way he reads a document he already knows is forged.
"Don't turn around yet."
Low and level, the voice that closes meetings.
"I need to say this once, and then you can go back to being Theo's wife and I can go back to driving here and home for six Sundays for the food."
He breathes in slowly. Wine on his breath, ironed cotton, and under it something thinner, like cardamom left in a drawer.
"It's the smell."
He rubs his thumb once along the counter edge.
"You peel oranges with your hands and then you stand near me in the hall and I lose my whole vocabulary. Adele has not smelled anything since she was nineteen. I am the one in that house who notices. And what I noticed, six months ago, at this table, was you."
A fork lands in the sink behind him and neither of you moves.
"I am not asking for anything tonight."
He folds his jacket over the chair back, neatly, the way he does everything.
"I am telling you that I have paid for a hotel two streets from your office, three weeks ahead, and that I will cancel it in the morning if you say so. Tell me something. Anything. Standing here is worse than being told no."