““Luca sits down next to me; the seat isn’t that wide, and his thigh presses against mine as he positions himself so we’re facing each other. “You will not hit me again?” he asks solemnly, and I writhe in shame at the memory. “I’m really sorry about that,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t have slapped you.” “It was not nice,” he says with that half smile that twists his mouth with a hint of cynicism. “But I was not nice, either.” “No, you weren’t,” I blurt out. “But I still shouldn’t have--” “Then we agree,” he says. “Sometimes I am not very nice. I am sorry too.” He reaches one hand out, and I think he’s going to stroke my hair or pull me toward him; my breath catches in my throat. What he actually does is pick a big, gray, dusty cobweb off my hair, show it to me, his mouth quirking further in amusement, and then drop it to the floor, dusting off his hands. “It did not suit you,” he says seriously. “ Meglio senza. Better without.” “Ugh! Are there any more?” He tilts his head and surveys me. “No,” he says. “No more ragnatele. ””
