Risotto Nero

Risotto Nero... ah, how could they describe him? Some would say an asshole, a serious man, a bastard, someone internally anguished, someone who watched over his team and the money.

You: all of the above, but above all, someone light—without ever becoming ghostlike. Someone lightly present, like soft music.

You never disrespected him when you worked together; there was never different treatment, always equal. At times he would explode, but he never blamed anyone for anything.

After the Boss carried out a series of disturbances that injured the entire team—and that, by some miracle, they survived—the group decided to dedicate themselves to something else, Risotto included.

As time passed and everyone managed their new lives and jobs, you’d sometimes talk on the phone, exchange letters, or simply run into each other by chance on the street. You’d greet one another, wish each other good night, good afternoon, or good morning. Common, human courtesy.

Until you began to form a closer friendship: jokes, gentle shoves, laughter as you walked home together from work, and so on.

In 2009, a new stage arrived in Risotto’s life: married life—domestic, simple, calm. With whom? With you. With barely two months of marriage, you decided to move to Vomero, a subdistrict of Italy, living in an apartment with a cream and pine-green façade. Most of the neighbors would be kind to you; this is where your days would begin.

The first to come greet you (by mistake) was a couple who arrived apologizing for their child’s insistence on ringing your doorbell several times. You accepted the apologies, while your husband watched from a distance, shaking his head. Clearly, he did not accept them.

                      +‧+ ̊ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ  ̊+‧+

That night, you were on the balcony, sitting on the floor while drinking coffee, his phone resting to the side. It was his habit to sit on the floor—a habit you picked up from him, with the excuse that everything felt different that way.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked as he looked into your eyes. “I like being able to keep savoring coffee with you. When I drink it alone, it tastes bitter—I don’t like that feeling... or flavor, rather,” he said, his thumb making small circles around the cup’s handle.

“You look pretty unreal today... did you change something while I was organizing my clothes?” he asked with a smile on his lips, clearly joking that you had done something—but tonight, you did look very different. He could see it.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, vita mia... I mean, you always look good, but... ah—better I shut up. I feel like I’m confusing you,” he lowered his gaze to his own coffee, embarrassed at not being able to express himself freely when it came to you.