Breakfast on Tuesday

3. Artsy girl

The interior of the restaurant was dark and intimate; dark because of the black walls and not from a lack of light coming from the industrial lamps and tall windows. Brown wooden tables with comfortable looking chairs filled out the large space, and over two dozen potted plants dressed the windows and stood as focal pieces between the tables.

It was the perfect lovers' alcove, primed for making googly eyes at each other over a fancy meal neither could afford. And since I was as single as a drinking straw after it got taken out of the box, it was not the kind of place I would ever come to on my own.

I knew perfectly well what happened to straws after they came out of the box. They got chewed on and were thrown in the trash to die alone.

"Anna," Dante said addressing the woman behind the bar, "this is... What's your name?" His cold eyes settled on my face and I couldn't tell if he was asking because he wanted to know or if he was merely getting the pleasantries out of the way.

"Carla."

He nodded and Anna smiled, her kind brown eyes shining bright. Her face was shaped like an owl and it was difficult not to drown in the flair I saw oozing from her pores like second nature.

"Hi, Carla. I'm Annabella." She turned to Dante and this time her eyes radiated with love. "Dante, is Clara our first customer?" Before he could answer, she tumbled on, her English accent surprisingly not as heavy as Dante's. "In that case, our famous chocolate milk with whipped cream and marshmallows is on the house. We honestly weren't expecting anyone this early.

"Clara is just here to let me check her head and then she'll be on her merry way to wherever she was going to before she decided to crash into me with her bike." Dante looked at me flatly, his eyes begging me to defy his words.

I held his gaze, mesmerized by the confidence and hint of annoyance dripping from his bold lips. A small smile appeared on my lips because he truly believed I would listen to him and hop back on my bike in these frigid conditions when I could just stay here and drink hot chocolate on the house.

Naturally, I did the opposite of what he was expecting of me. I defied.

Defy. What a rebellious word.

"Dante's Right," I said sweetly. "I was on my way to the university when I fell off my bike. Not because I'm clumsy but because a crazy driver lost control of his car. But I'd love to stay and have breakfast. I'm suddenly feeling famished. I think near-death experiences can do that to people."

Dante's lips curled and his eyes darkened to match the walls. "Don't be dramatic. It was just a scrape."

"Just a scrape?" I scoffed. "Just a scrape? Did you not see how hard I hit my head back there? I saw black spots, sir. And didn't you tell me that I might have a mild concussion?"

"Fucking Americans, so soft, so fragile. Is this your first time falling off a bike?" he demanded.

"No," I gritted. "And I told you, I'm not a fucking American." If he wanted to swear, I was going to call on my petty side and swear right back at him. I couldn't believe the temper and the dirty mouth on this dude.

"You sound like an American, but like I said I don't fucking care. Maybe you're not from this earth at all and that's why you don't know how to ride a fucking bike."

"Alright, guys. Chill." Annabella walked from behind the counter to stand between me and Dante, her stance nonthreatening.

Dante backed off. "Hey, I'm chill, okay. So chill I can't feel my balls."

Annabella wrinkled her nose at him. "I'm sure Carla here doesn't care about the frozen state of your balls."

I opened my mouth to agree, but I was forced to shut it as quickly as I opened it. Dante was intriguing alright. Did I care about him? No. Did I want him to keep looking at me with those stormy serious eyes? Yes. Did I care about his balls? Not particularly, but that voice of his didn't belong to a man with no balls. Everything about the man screamed big-balls-energy. Too bad, I had no clue just how big they were.

Dante threw Annabella a death glare. "Why don't we let Carla decide for herself? I have yet to meet a woman who didn't care about them."

Where in the world was this conversation going? "I do not-"

"Carla, not a word from you about my balls. Come with me now, the bathroom is this way. Anna, find Carla a new coat. This one belongs in the trash."

He took my hand with a familiarity that was weird to me and pulled me toward him. I turned to look at Annabella as he led me deeper into the restaurant and she smiled, but contrary to her smile, worry flashed in her eyes. "One new coat coming right up," she said.

We disappeared around the corner and I had to bite my tongue to refrain from cursing him. Who did he think he was to talk to me like that?

Not a word from me? The audacity! Last I remembered, we were no longer living in the stone age where women didn't have a voice. I would bloody say what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it.

The women's toilet was down the stairs. Dante ushered me forward and then followed me inside the large and cozy room where two large black sinks were lined up against the wall. Tall plants decorated the corners of the fancy restroom.

I looked ahead and two paintings of a half naked couple posed in various sensual positions stopped me in my track.

Dante stopped right behind me. "These were painted by Charles Roka, a Hungarian painter. This is a private collection that has been in my family for years. There are six paintings in total. Two are in the men's restroom and the other two are in my home."

"She's beautiful," I whispered, studying how well the artist had managed to capture her brown complexion and natural afro hair with a red rose in it so vividly, using her yellow off-shoulder dress to emphasize the melanin in her skin and the silkiness of it to contrast the wool-like quality of her hair. In one of the paintings, the dress had fallen completely off one shoulder and her full breast and pointed nipple were on full display, causing my cheeks to heat up.

The image was more sensual than erotic, but it dislodged something carnal and sexual within me, and I deeply believed it had something to do with the man standing so close to me.

Even though his demeanor was cold and he was somewhat overbearing, the heat I felt when I was in his presence was white blazing hot.

"I grew up watching her on the walls of our home when I was a young boy and I remember thinking the same thing," he said slowly, moving closer to me, the heady scent of his cologne wafting up my nose. It was a dark, soft wintery scent and it paired well with his natural body odor. "I hated that the world never got to see this side of his work because back then European beauty was seen as the golden standard and it overshadowed, to use a lesser term, any form of beauty that wasn't seen as conventional. Roka never signed these paintings because he was afraid of the backlash he would receive."

"I am not surprised by that," I said, swallowing the nervous lump at the back of my throat. "Black beauty is secretly coveted by many, but somehow a lot of the things that make me black, like my hair and dark brown skin, are still not seen as acceptable in certain circles."

"But do you accept you? Every inch of you, regardless of what they think?" His voice was husky and low, and much closer to my ear than I would have liked.

"Yes, I try." I looked at him in the mirror next to the painting. He was busy studying my profile with a deep intensity.

His breath fanned out on the shell of my ear and then he lifted his head until his burning gaze met mine. "But there is no need to try. You are the fucking epitome of beautiful to me, Clara."

°°°

"...what is beautiful will always be subject to the vicissitudes and whims of a generation." - Molly Ringwald