Our favourite restaurant was a little Italian in the harbour. It had been family owned for over 60 years. My parents had met there when my mother was waitressing and my father worked on the fishing boats. They were young when they married, weren't they all in those days?
Along I came along exactly 9 months to the day of their wedding.
My wife and I married a lot later in life by comparison, although we met when we were in university. Our three children were doing well. We had the perfect life. Our eldest was about to move to high school, and the other two were enjoying primary school.
Our relationship was perfect. We were less intimate these days, but I really did marry my best friend. She was everything to me. I'd never even looked at another woman in the whole time we had been together.
No matter how busy we were with the boys and work, our anniversary was always a priority, and it was always here without fail, just like my parents had done.
Il Porticciolo knew us well. Every year without asking, our reservation was made, the same table, the same time. The year my wife was so pregnant that we were unable to eat out, they sent our favourite meals, delivered by owner Mr Bianchi himself. Despite his age, he pootled to our house on his scooter in the snow.
Our anniversary fell on a Sunday night this year and we arrived at the restaurant. Guided to our usual table surrounded by local acquaintances, we ordered our favourites and a bottle of sparkling wine, Italian of course.
As my wife gazed into the night, watching the dancing lights of the boats bobbing in the harbour, I glanced around the restaurant.
A sole diner caught my eye. I assumed diner but all I saw was a glass of red wine. She sat alone at a table in far rear corner, her long legs crossed, her red dress rising up her thigh. She swirled the wine in her huge glass and sipped as she smiled at her phone. I realised I had been staring for far too long and quickly returned to my wife. She was still mesmerised by the view; I risked another look.
Her legs had switched, and I could see further up. I slowly followed the line of her dress noticing how low cut it was. Her ample breast spilling over the top. Her long dark hair gently rested atop them. I looked further up and I was caught out. She was looking right back at me.
I quickly looked away and gave my full attention to my wife. She was the polar opposite. Blonde with small breasts. Feeding our three boys had seen to that; I loved them just the same. Waiter Marco saved my awkwardness by delivering our meals.
Fantastic food and sumptuous wine with the very best company. We laughed and reminisced over our previous visits to Il Porticciolo. Marco had been our favourite waiter since the time he had asked my wife in broken English if she enjoyed his sausage. I never forgot the look of confusion as we laughed until we cried. He soon returned to our table profusely apologetic with complimentary desserts after the dishwasher had explained what he had said.
I excused myself for a much needed bathroom visit.
The facilities here were extremely small. Just one urinal with the main sink, and one cubicle further in. As I zipped up the fly to my suit pants, I washed my hands and turned to leave. The door opened inward before I could touch it and I prepared for the awkward shuffle past the next visitor.
That red dress was unmistakable. I momentarily panicked that I was in the wrong bathroom quickly realising that women's bathrooms do not have urinals. Yet, I still smiled awkwardly and apologetically as I attempted to navigate past her.
She didn't move. She gently lay her hands on my chest and guided me back. I still don't know why I let her. Her eyes fixated on mine rendered me stupid and mute. She lead me into the cubicle and locked the door.
When I think back, I have no idea what happened. Like a siren she cast a spell with her eyes and I followed her lead. Her eyes, deep and dark with a sparkle which spoke to me when her lips said nothing.
