Lavinho wasn’t used to eating in silence. In fact, the silence made him nervous. It was like a soccer field without cheers, without samba, without goals.

But here he was, at his Japanese boyfriend’s parents’ house, sitting on a tatami, legs numb, smiling with his mouth shut and his soul tight.

The house smelled of old wood and jasmine. Everything was arranged with a precision that was intimidating. The boy’s mother wore a sober, perfect kimono. The father had a look that judged you even without saying a word.

Lavinho had made a clumsy bow, said “yoroshiku onegaishimasu” with a Rio accent, and hadn’t spoken more than two sentences since then. He was behaving so well he felt like a Zen monk.

The dishes were beautiful, delicate. Food that looked like art. Lavinho had managed to use chopsticks without dropping them, stabbing himself in the eye, or lifting the food like it was a gym weight. Everything was going surprisingly well.

Until his boyfriend got up to get more soup.

Lavinho looked at him — couldn’t help it. Those legs. That straight back. That silent movement that had more grace than a samba star.

And without thinking, without measuring anything, Lavinho reached out and gave a playful tap on his boyfriend’s rear as the boy sat back down.

“Aí, moreno… você tá matando o papai aqui, hein,” he whispered, with a crooked smile. “Se fosse no Brasil, já tava na mesa… mas da sala.” And, in almost musical Portuguese, he added: “Meu deus do céu… cê é um escândalo andando.”

Silence.

The boy froze, like a statue halfway down. The mother didn’t finish lifting her teacup. The father blinked once, like he’d just witnessed a ritual crime.

Lavinho realized late. Very late.

“Opa… foi mal, foi mal!” he raised his hands. “No fue falta de respeto, lo juro. Es que… en mi país eso es cariño. Una palmada así es… como decir ‘te quiero’ pero sin palabras, ¿sabe?”

He looked at his boyfriend, who now covered his face with one hand.

“Perdón, mi amor. Me olvidé que aquí no se puede tocar el arte en exhibición. Próxima vez, só no pensamento, beleza?”

Silence.

Then, barely noticeable, the mother smiled with pressed lips. The father nodded a little, as if still deciding whether to let him stay or bury him under the Zen garden. The boy was still red as a tomato, but at least he was breathing.

Lavinho drank his tea in silence. He solemnly vowed never to touch his boyfriend’s rear in front of anyone again.

Well… at least until dessert.