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Zake goes to the Union Banquet.

"She's very picky about them to start," he lamented, "And then she is living with me, so, often it's a problem." He shook his head. "But sometimes she feels bad because I am with you or with Lucia."

"And now Sofia."

"Eh, infatti."

"She puts up with a lot, you know. I don't think you realize how lucky you are that she sticks around."

He smiled at that, took my hand and led me from the table to the sofa. He put an arm around me and held me close while we finished our wine. "Valeria likes our situation when things are going well for her. And when they're not," he shrugged, "that's difficult for both of us. I know I should be there for her..."

"But you're not."

"No," he said, "I'm here with you."

I appreciated that for a silent moment, and then I thought to ask, "Do you speak to each of us about the others?"

He set down his glass and took up the guitar. Having contemplated for a good thirty seconds, he decided that the answer was no. "I talk the most with you."

I was more than a little flattered at this revelation. "I'm like the mistress," I told him with a smile.

"You're not the mistress."

"I'm the one you tell things to. I'm the mistress. I know all about your wife. You're wives. But they don't know about me."

"You want to be the mistress?"

"It's a role I seem rather well suited to, don't you think?"

Satisfied that the tension in the strings was as it should be, he strummed the first chords of our Joni Mitchell song. I hadn't sung it in ages. I got up off the couch and brought out a kitchen chair so that I could sit up straighter. The first few notes were a little cracked, but I found my way by the third line. "Oh, I hate you so. I hate you so. I love you so. Oh, I love you when I forget about me."

This is where we are our best together, Claudio and I, apart from in bed. We thrive in the other's company as artists, writers, musicians, our creative selves. I belted out the notes on key, isolated as we were in the tiny house in the garden. He played with abandon and when the song ended, he set aside the instrument and pulled me into his arms. "You are so warm tonight," he told me. "Your voice, your attitude..." He traced the plunging neckline of my t-shirt. "This," he whispered.

I wrapped my arms around him, and taking full advantage of the fact that it was my birthday and that I could therefore do as I pleased, I up and told him I loved him.

His eyes sparkled. He smiled. He kissed me. A lot.

"You knew!" I was incredulous.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Since when?"

"Since the day on the steps of the opera house when you told me you didn't want to be just another of my lovers."

"That was a long time ago!" I laughed. "You knew before I did."

"Maybe, yes." He held my face in his hands, looked into my eyes and said nothing more. And I think I expected that. To admit to loving someone is not as easily done in Italian as in English, and it's difficult enough in English. Instead, he held my gaze until I knew that he knew that I'd given him something meaningful. Then his mouth was on mine, and the warmth between us grew suddenly hotter. He stood and pulled me to my feet. I moved toward the stairs, but he grabbed my wrist and spun me around so that I was facing the wall over the sofa. From behind, he tore off my t-shirt and then my bra. He was hurried, rough, startlingly out of character. When he had my jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, he shoved me forward so that I was bent over in front of him. I still had my shoes on, and so my pants were around my ankles when she slammed into me. I gasped. He made a sound almost like he was in pain. He stopped.

"Are you alright?"

I nodded.

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