Our Italian waiter looks at our hands on the table.
I see what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if with Jeff’s status he could find a way into my hands too.
Jeff doesn’t perceive any of the on-the-spot screening on his houses, women and business and, simply, he goes on:

 ― “On the walk side of that late afternoon, Hollywood was delivering me its prime time, baby… and, I didn’t hesitate to catch it.”

She rules her life like a fine skylark
and when the sky is starless*

 ― “The first evening we met her scent was as promising as heavy clouds running in a dark heaven that has seen no rain for a long time. I had called her down here to the beach at Giorgio Baldi’s… this was already the restaurant you had to show up at, if you were in the business….”

Our pizza-soccer-mandolin guy is now searching the answers to his existence in my thighs.
Jeff maintains his blindness:

― “….we spent hours pretending to unfold each other’s secrets in the velvetiness of the red wine, until the dizziness let our undressed illusions sink in the chant of these waves…. Of her tan body I remember high heels supporting its crystal strength, as black as the butterflies playing with the moon’s reflections through her indomitable hair.”

As Jeff’s memories get lost in his whiteness, his fingers search for a tighter hope in mine:

― “She was so different from any other woman. She was such a lady.
She was like you, baby….”

She is like a cat in the dark
and then she is the darkness*

Our annoying food and beverage attendant steps out of his favorite corner of espionage to take the orders.
When we are done, my doubts find the courage:

― “…when did that red wine of your reciprocal euphoria become the lonely company of her private affliction?”

― “…she just stopped smiling.”

― “…out of nowhere…?”

Jeff’s eyes look for the door through the candle lighted whispers in the dining room.
After a brief moment that feels too long, they end on our tablecloth:

― “We were recording that famous song in the studio….”

― “Which one? …you recorded hundreds….”

― “Rhiannon.”

― “Rhiannon like, me…?”

He softly moves his Ray-Bans around the bread basket.

― “At some point, I was hanging out with the woman who wrote it….”

― “…you mean hanging out like hanging out or hanging out like fucking each other?”

Jeff lets his head fall to the table as if he will never raise it up again.
I wonder why the remaining romance in the room isn’t screaming at him yet.
All of a sudden. Screaming at him.

Apparently, Giorgio Baldi Restaurant’s romance has always been too busy playing itself out to notice anything than its own projections.
Jeff’s head is shacking:

― “…she found out when she was pregnant of you.”

― “…and, she decided to call me like that song…?”

― “She said Rhiannon was the witch who took her love away from her and so Rhiannon was the fairy who was going to take it back.”

― “…and that Rhiannon was supposed to be me?!”

I’m afraid my voice is too loud and I automatically turn toward our self-declared macho’s status.
He cannot even hold the giggling anymore.

Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?* 

― “Dad, how did you make her that sick and desperate? Please….”

― “You were such a quiet baby…. Maybe you knew our mess and you were trying to fix it by turning into an angel.”

― “Maybe. Clearly, I failed.”

― “No baby, don’t say that…. She lost. I lost.
You, you are not us—you’re just the best part destiny could save of us.”

Our server delivers the check.
For Jeff, just one more.
As he puts his money in it, I stand up and walk out of our song.

Story by Liliana Isella.

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*Song by Fleetwood Mac, Rhiannon