ME & THE MONSTER

full circle

If she were to be honest, people-watching wasn't a patch on wall-kicking.

But as she was surrounded by clients and colleagues alike, Isabella Russo, head waitress at the Ristorante Michelangelo in Florence, had the mighty suspicion it wouldn't be a good idea to demonstrate her wall-kicking talents right now.

So she was left with people-watching, she supposed. It was a pleasing little hobby, after all. It kindled the frustrated psychologist within her.

Isabella stood at the entrance of the restaurant, nodding at newcomers and ushering them inside, her polished smile perfectly in place. Between the arrival of one client and the next, she watched people, vulture-like.

A rowdy crowd of friends, getting drunk on red wine and ravioli. On the far corner, two nervous teenage girls fiddled with their napkins.

A couple in their thirties, chatting right in front of her.

Isabella couldn't have told you why for the life of her, but she couldn't drag her eyes away from them.

The woman had jaw-length red hair, bright as a sundown. She was wolfing down a platter of cheese, a slab after the other, cheeks bulging. Every few seconds her hands would reach up to her head, and ruffle it, a look of amused surprise on her face, as if she wasn't used to its shortness.

The man, if she wasn't mistaken, was sipping at a cappuccino. A cappuccino, for lord's sake! Cappuccinos were to be drunk at breakfast, not at flipping two o'clock in the afternoon. These foreigners. The waitress shook her head in disgust, and her gaze slid to the man's left hand, which lay limp on the table.

She paused, a feeling of unease creeping over her. There was something odd about that hand. Something that screamed wrong. It made her chest clench and her eyes start to burn.

Isabella dropped her eyes. Only then did she notice the baby, curled up against the man's chest. He was silent, his small chest rising and falling in sleep. His hair was very black. She felt herself automatically beaming. She loved children. She had none of her own, but she'd babysit her sister's whenever she could.

The child looked so peaceful, wrapped up in his blankets ... so positively angelic ...

The redheaded woman leaned to a side and planted a kiss on the child's forehead, smiling as though she couldn't help her happiness from brimming out of her. Then the child opened his eyes.

Isabella gasped.

He was looking straight back at her, this baby with the blue-black hair and such placid gentleness cooped up in his little face. He couldn't have been older than a handful of months. But his eyes – his eyes were old. They held winter, and sorrows, and time, and evil.

Isabella stumbled backwards, her heart beating fast. She leaned against a wall and stared down at her high heels. She didn't dare look at the couple with the baby again, even though she told herself it was her migraine again that had made her imagine things. That was all.

She was being ridiculous, but for a moment she'd thought the infant looked like an angel, or maybe – maybe, yes, demonic, that was the word. And yet perhaps both, at the same time, if that made any sense. She couldn't quite make up her mind.

She wouldn't have guessed, but she was right about everything.