“And not answering him.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not answering him.”
Sophie nods once. “Good.”
The word settles between us, not as praise, but as agreement. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is easier now. It has the shape of an old friendship. It has the shape of two women who can let a hard thing sit on the table without decorating it. Then Sophie clears her throat.
“Now tell me something shallow before I become too emotionally sincere and need to lie down,” Sophie says.
I laugh, and this one comes easier.
“The hotel receptionist remembers me from three years ago because I rejected a concierge’s restaurant recommendation.”
Sophie’s eyes light.
“Of course she does. That is your origin story.”
“Her name is Lucia. She said faster is vulgar.”
“I love Lucia.”
“She also judges people by what they eat.”
“I worship Lucia.”
“I thought you might.”
“Describe her.”
“Silver hair. Sharp cheekbones. Black dress. Terrifying in a helpful way.”
“So, Italian Diana.”
“Less severe.”
“Impossible.”
“Different severe,” I say.
Sophie points at the screen.
“There it is. That’s the line. Use that somewhere.”
“I’m not putting Lucia in a restaurant column.”
“You should put Lucia in everything.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You won’t, but I appreciate the lie.”
A knock sounds faintly somewhere beyond my room, followed by a rolling cart and a housekeeper’s soft apology in Italian. I glance at the time.
“I have to finish the Rome notes,” I say.
“Of course you do,” Sophie says. “What is today?”
“Last full day.”