“Sì, you’re that as well,” he quietly mutters while poorly hiding his smirk. Our attention returns to Ferdinand in tandem, and he orders, “Ich hätte gerne zwei Bestellungen von Old Fashion bitte.”
It doesn’t take long for our orders to be fulfilled; however, the process of leaving becomes complicated when Ferdinand refuses to accept payment and Benicio refuses his refusal. The two pass so much time arguing that I start to believe my ice cold beer and hot meat are going to swap temperatures.
“Hot, hungry, woman here,” I playfully remind. “You might wanna wrap this shit up…”
The words persuade him to do just that. “Miko!”
From his respectful distance, he responds, “Sì?”
“Get something to eat and pay Ferdinand for it.”
His second happily jogs over to the large cart, more than pleased to fulfill the command.
We stroll off a bit further to the side – staying within Miko’s sights – and set up shop. Beni less than gracefully sheds his jacket for us to sit on, and the sweet gesture is rewarded by a soft smile and an Italian thank you.
“Your accent needs vast improvement,” Benicio casually informs before having a sip of his beer, “however, I admire the attempt.”
I helplessly smirk at the insult compliment combination. “And what language is that you’re saying you’re welcome in?”
His abrupt laughter nearly causes him to spill his drink.
“Do you speak any other actual languages?”
“Many.”
“French?”
“Oui.”
“Russian?”
“Da.”
“Greek?”
“Naí.”
Equally amused and impressed, I try something else. “Korean?”
“Ne jeodo geuleohseubnida.”
“Hungarian?”
“Igen.”
“Portuguese?!”
“Sim.”
“Holy shit, that’s hot.”
My mindless gushing flushes my cheeks in embarrassment yet has him arrogantly chortling, “Grazie.”
I roll my eyes, wedge my beer cup in the sand beside me, and lift the foreign food upwards for the tasting. “What exactly am I about to put in my mouth?”
“Beer cooked bratwurst.” Benicio leans over and points, “That’s sauerkraut. Those,” he moves his index finger slightly over, “are sautéed onions. And that,” it’s moved one additional time, “is a spicy secret sauce that reminds me of spicy brown mustard but better.”
“Better than spicy brown mustard?” My gasp is overdramatic. “Is there such a thing?”
His glower is immediate; however, spotting the smile on my face prevents it from truly setting in. “Assaggia la dannata cosa.”
“Does that mean stop talking?”
“It means, just taste the damn thing.”
“Where are those manners you promised me you’d work on?”
Benicio’s growl ignites two different types of excitement alike. “Per favore.”
Guessing that one means please, I shoot him a wink and have my first bite. While the flavors are an unfamiliar delightful experience from unique texture to taste, it’s the way my dinner partner is hungrily leering that truthfully has me moaning.
Seeing his lips separated for the slightest breath to be inhaled or exhaled.
Spotting the tip of his tongue anxiously touching the very edge of his top lip.
Sighting the smallest quiver of his prominent Adam’s Apple.
Fuck, that mixture is much much more delectable than the one I’m chewing through.
Benicio waits until I’ve successfully swallowed to smile and ask, “Buona?”
“Very buona.”
He poorly hides his cringe over my second attempt at his native language.
I gently nudge him, sparking another round of laughs from us both.
After they die down, he casually informs, “My father taught me that there were a few universal languages in this life. Money. Violence. Sex. And food. He then informed that it was my responsibility to learn as many of the others as I was capable of, so I have spent a significant amount of time learning to speak, read, and write languages both in their formal and informal structures.” The corner of his lip tugs upwards in an irresistible nature. “Growing up, he would on the occasion bring me here to practice my German. Ferdinand’s father used to run the cart when we were kids. He was groomed from an early age on how to handle the business that would one day be in his hands when his father passed on or decided to pass it on. Whichever came first.”
“Like you.”
Benicio’s smile fades a little. “We’ve always had much in common. At time, parallel lives separated by nothing more than the social fence.”
I let out a small thoughtful hum and have another bite.
The man who has yet to forfeit my attention prepares to have one himself but abruptly stops to meet my stare again. “To answer your earlier question, mia bella, no, I didn’t drive you two hours ‘just to have a hotdog’. I drove you two hours to show you somewhere meaningful to me.”
His words melt me for the millionth time.
“I most certainly did not possess the closeness with my father that you have with yours; however, we, too, had our unique aspects to our relationship, and eating here was one of them.”
A wave of emotions surges up the back of my throat, prompting me to ask for more information about his father, their relationship, and other secrets I swear I’ll keep safe if he lets me, yet instead of acting on those impulses, I simply offer him a small smile. “I appreciate you sharing something like this with me…Grazie.”
Benicio’s whispered retort has the smallest shake to it. “Prego.”
Deciding it would probably be better to avoid any more deep topics, I veer the conversation back to a lighter direction. “Technically, though, you didn’t drive me anywhere, Beni. You had your driver drive me, which brings up the extremely important question…Can you even drive?”
“Yes,” he swiftly states, “and I would prefer you only call me that when we are alone. Understood?”
“So…never? Because we’re never alone.”
“We’re alone at this very moment.”
I gawk at the statement prior to pointing. “Miko’s like right there!”