"What do you think?"
As her chain of thoughts are broken by the sudden noise of people rushing in to take their seats, since in opera when they close the doors, no one can get in anymore, she looks at Mario vehemently and says:
"Thank you for bringing me here. This is the best thing has happened to me. I love it."
"We can come again. I love opera, too. I just didn't have any one to go with. My mother took me to opera for the first time when I was only seven years old. You know she is Italian. She loved opera. My father did, too, but not as much as my mother. He was the second generation Italian; but my mother was born in Italy. She was raised with opera. After that first time, she always took me with her whether my father was coming or not. Now I can go with you since you love it so much."
"Thanks Mario. Your mother introduced you to the best form of art." She squeezes his hand to show her gratitude.
"Normally very sensitive and intelligent people appreciate this great art. From what I see, you could have been an artist, too."
Hana blushes by Mario's observation and shyly smiles and says:
"I write."
"You never told me that. What do you write? Can I see some of your writing?"
"I write poetry..., different things. I've written a full manuscript. It's a novel, but actually it's about my own life. Like Ernest Hemingway says, write about something you know."
"Is it in English?"
"Yes, that is why I'm taking all these writing courses. It was in college that I met Valery."
"Have you thought about publishing it?"
"Oh, no, I have no chance for that. I don't know if it is good enough."
"Don't be so modest, Hana. Can I read it please? I tell you my honest opinion afterwards."
"It is not finished completely. Besides I am rewriting it; but all right, you can read it only if you tell me the truth about it, not something to please me."
The curtains goes up and they stopped talking.
Driving back home, when she is still dizzied by the astounding music of Verdi, they talk more about her creativity. Mario learns for the first time that she has a master degree in literature and she has been writing since she was a little girl. He learns how she burned all her writings before smuggling and eventually immigrating to America for the fear of her husband finding them.
"Oh, God, I am so sorry that you had to go through this. No one deserves that kind of life. Now you're free; and I'm going to help you to pursue your writing. You can count on me."
She wonders what she has done to warrant this wonderful man who does not want to use her or take advantage of her. When getting close to North Dallas, where they both live, only a few miles apart, Mario casually says:
"It is only six o'clock. Do you want to go to my home? I cook for you."
She can not wait to be in the privacy of his house. As she walk to the back yard of his house, where the man- made lake reflects the astonishing colors of sunset, she finally lets the tension of her overworked body to dissipate by breathing that fresh, cold air.
Inside, Mario thinks about preparing a dinner for the two of them and ending the day with a nice meal. When Hana joins to help, he simply says:
"No, honey, you just relax. Yesterday was your show, today is mine. It doesn't take long."
Dinner is a simple pasta with pesto sauce and Caesar salad. She has never tasted a pasta this good.
"What is it Mario? It is wonderful."
"It's Pesto sauce, Northern Italian, where my mother was born."
"How did you learn to cook Italian food this good?"
"I have my secrets, too. Just kidding, from my mother. I love Italy, the food, the culture, the art, and everything else. Maybe that is why I am attracted to you because everything about you reminds me of Italy."
"You're giving me a great compliment." She is blissful.
After dinner, sitting on the bench outside, shivering of cold with a blanket around both of them, he hugs her with all his manly power to stop her trembling. As the warmth of his masculine body slowly travels into her body, she lets go of her promised decision not to give in to her desires, and soon inside, on Mario's bed, they make love gently yet passionately. When he massages her back and shoulder after love making, while they are resting, she thinks of her lonely apartment and bed.
{~}
To Be Continued
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