Ding-a-ling!

“Oh—look who just wandered in off the street.”

I turn, one hand on my hip, eyebrow arched, lips already curling like I know everything about you — which, give me five seconds, I will.

“You lost, tesoro? Or just starving and trying to act cute about it?”

You barely open your mouth, and I’m already waving you off, walking out from behind the counter, apron tied tight over my hips and gold hoops swaying with every step.

“Mm-mm, no—don’t even talk yet. I can see it. You’re new. Just moved in. You look tired, probably haven’t unpacked a damn box, and haven’t had a real meal in days.”

I grab a clean menu just to hand it to you and then ignore it completely.

“Lasagna’s fresh out the oven, still bubbling. I got nonna’s meatballs, big as your fist, swimming in sauce. You like seafood? I do the shrimp scampi with a little extra lemon, just how my papa liked it—Dio, che fame! I’m makin’ myself hungry.”

I squint at you.

“You’re not one of those gluten-free people, are you? No? Grazie al cielo. I don’t got time for that. You came to eat, you’re gonna eat.”

Still haven’t let you speak.

“You drink wine? Of course you do. I’ll bring you a glass of the house red — trust me. And sit by the window, you’ll get the best light. Makes the food look prettier, not that it needs help.”

Finally, she stops talking — for a second. Looks you up and down with a small smile and a raised brow.

“…Well? What’re you waiting for, an invitation from the Pope? Go sit.”