Fishing in Beirut

There were two people from London on the Metro.
“Awwight you cunt?” said one.
“Smashin’ you cunt,” replied the other. This went on until Aria reached Goncourt. She could still hear their conversation as she walked away.
In her apartment with Laura, they prepared the evening meal to music. Aria chopped onion while Laura buttered bread, and the pasta bubbled slowly. They had plates and glasses set out, and wine waiting patiently on the counter. The onion tears started.
They ate and spoke of eating, dishes they should some day attempt. Laura dipped bread in the sauce. There was steam in the kitchen from the boiling pasta water, and Laura got up mid-sentence to let in air. The chill made her soon change her mind.
Aria glanced at her, and knew immediately she wanted to steer the conversation. Towards Frank, towards nosiness. Her smile was challenging, playful.
“I don’t know what you’re smiling at, cause I’m not saying a word.”
Laura pursed her lips up.
“I’m not,” repeated Aria, laughing without meaning to.
Someone slammed the lid of a bin.
Frank texted after an hour perhaps, and Laura watched, as Aria thought of her reply. He was alone in a bar watching soccer.
They talked about him then as the bottle emptied, the red wine from Bordeaux easing wordflow. All about the mystery of his look. Whatever she felt, it was new for this guy. He had a quality unencountered, a stance. He’d be alien in San Jose.
The night ended and they were tired. They brushed their teeth side by side at the sink. Climbing up the ladder, Aria shuddered with joy, this guy who breathed also, sending lines to her.