“What's your last name?” Mischa demanded. He let go of her arm.
“If I tell you, will you stay?” he responded.
“I'll think about it.”
“Canaan.”
“What was that?”
“My last name – Canaan.”
Tal Canaan. So interesting. So fitting.
“Where are you from?” she continued. He shook his head.
“That kind of information, you have to earn,” he informed her. A shiver ran down her spine.
“What are you doing in Italy?” she pressed.
“I told you, I was sent here on a job,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, I meant what's your job?” she clarified.
“My job is … hard to explain. I work for the government,” he answered evasively.
“U.S.?”
“No.”
“Italy?”
“No.”
“Somewhere in the E.U.?” she kept guessing.
“Misch,” he sighed. “We were having a nice time. I'm sorry I fucked it up. Let's just shoot the shit and have a couple drinks. Be pals.”
Not exactly poetry. Not exactly a pick up line. But it was nice to have someone to talk to, after a week of speaking only insurance lingo. Misch leaned against the bar, and took her drink when it was offered to her.
“To new friends,” she toasted him, setting a boundary and making a statement. Tal smiled and clinked his glass to hers.
“New friends,” he echoed, then took a drink. But when he moved his glass away, his smile had a decidedly sly look to it again.
They had more drinks, talked about football. Talked about Misch's dancing days. Talked about the year he'd spent in Thailand. Mr. Canaan had traveled quite a bit throughout his life, it seemed. He wouldn't say where he was from, or where he was currently living, but Misch began to think it was because he didn't have a home base. He seemed to be a modern day gypsy.
Conversation flowed between them, in an easy manner that somewhat shocked her. She felt comfortable with him, and was finding herself happy to realize she'd made her first friend. She would be in Italy for a while, so having a friend would help. It was looking like Tal could be that friend.
“What's the most exotic place you've ever lived?” Misch asked, vicariously living through him. He handed her another drink, her third since they'd been there. She was feeling a lot looser, most of her nerves gone. She was in a foreign country, having drinks with a friendly man. A very friendly, very good looking, man, but she focused on the friendly part.
“Hard to say. Everywhere is exotic if you look at it in the right light,” Tal replied, pulling the straw from his whiskey-and-coke. He ran his tongue along it, capturing the excess liquid, before tossing it onto the bar. Misch ate up every movement.
Just a friend ...
“Really?”
“Sure. I was in the tundra once, in Siberia – amazing sunsets, like you wouldn't believe. Like the snow is on fire. Also lived in Bosnia, great culture,” he broke it down.
“I never thought of it that way. I was thinking palm trees. Jungle,” she explained.
“Typical.”
“Hey!” she laughed, coughing on the sip she'd been taking. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“That means I think you've led a very sheltered life, Ms. Rapaport,” he told her, his voice low. She cleared her throat and took a gulp of her vodka-tonic. Mostly vodka.
“Mrs. Rapaport,” she corrected him.
“Ah, yes. Of course. How could I forget,” he gave another tight smile.
“Is there a Mrs. Canaan?” Misch tried to sound nonchalant. Failed miserably. Tal's smile got bigger.
“Would you care if there was?” he countered. Her blush was back, though whether it was from embarrassment or excitement or the liquor, she couldn't tell.
“I … I'm not … we're not …,” she stuttered. He narrowed his eyes, but kept smiling.
“Charming. Utterly charming. Will you excuse me for a moment?” he suddenly asked, putting his glass on the bar top.
“I, uh, sure,” she managed to nod. He chuckled and leaned down close to her.
“Don't let any other men hit on you, I won't be here to save you,” he cautioned her.
She snorted.
Misch watched Tal walk out of the bar. When he was out of sight, she let out a breath she'd been holding and sagged against the bar, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp. What was she doing? What in the fuck was she doing!? What was going on? She was a little tipsy, a little excited, but that was it. Nothing was happening, he'd actually been a perfect gentleman.
Would you care if there was a Mrs. Canaan?
She had to leave. Mischa had to get out of there. Before something happened that she couldn't take back. “Just friends”, who was she kidding? This wasn't a fucking game. When Tal came back, she would explain that to him. Hammer it into him. They were both adults – she was attracted to him. He seemed to be attracted to her. But that didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to go anywhere.
“Ciao,” a soft voice said close to her.
Misch whirled around to find another gentleman standing close to her. Fuck, was she in heat or something!? Were “cheating-whore” vibes coming off of her in waves!?
“I'm with somebody,” she snapped.
“Ah, American!” an Australian accent rolled out of the guy.