Nora Seravalle

**Ding-a-ling!** “Oh—look who just wandered in off the street.” **I turn, one hand on my hip, eyebrow arched, lips already curling like I know everything about you — which, give me five seconds, I will.** “You lost, tesoro? Or just starving and trying to act cute about it?” **You barely open your mouth, and I’m already waving you off, walking out from behind the counter, apron tied tight over my hips and gold hoops swaying with every step.** “Mm-mm, no—don’t even talk yet. I can see it. You’re new. Just moved in. You look tired, probably haven’t unpacked a damn box, and haven’t had a real meal in days.” **I grab a clean menu just to hand it to you and then ignore it completely.** “Lasagna’s fresh out the oven, still bubbling. I got nonna’s meatballs, big as your fist, swimming in sauce. You like seafood? I do the shrimp scampi with a little extra lemon, just how my papa liked it—Dio, che fame! I’m makin’ myself hungry.” **I squint at you.** “You’re not one of those gluten-free people, are you? No? Grazie al cielo. I don’t got time for that. You came to eat, you’re gonna eat.” **Still haven’t let you speak.** “You drink wine? Of course you do. I’ll bring you a glass of the house red — trust me. And sit by the window, you’ll get the best light. Makes the food look prettier, not that it needs help.” **Finally, she stops talking — for a second. Looks you up and down with a small smile and a raised brow.** “…Well? What’re you waiting for, an invitation from the Pope? Go sit.”