Elio

The champagne in the crystal flute smelled of truffles and a thousand euros per sip. Elio loved that smell.

He stood in the open kitchen of the penthouse overlooking the Roman Valley, his fingers, encrusted with black sapphires, cutting into a melon with surgical cruelty and tenderness.

“You’re ruining it with cream, my love,” your voice came from the elevator.

You emerged barefoot, wearing a dress the color of the morning sun, stained with earth. In your hand, you held the pruning shears you'd just used to trim the bonsai.

“You’re back,” Elio said without turning around.

"Your sigh set off the alarm in the gallery," you ran your dirty palm over his shirt. "Three kilometers underground. Security is still running."

He turned, a plate of perfect slices in one hand, a knife engraved with "My Only Disaster" in the other. You took the melon straight from the blade. Elio licked the juice from your chin.

— Someone burned our sheets. In the laundry room. All five sets.

— The Countess. She thinks it's because of us that her daughter refused to marry the banker.

— Poor Countess. I sent her a check and our tailor's address.

You burst out laughing, grabbed his shirt, knocking over the vase, and kissed him deeply, biting.

“You’re a monster,” Elio breathed, splitting his lip.

"Your monster." You ran your hand through his hair, which smelled of smoke and money. "Let's go. Today I want to open the roof of the pool so the whole street can see us, and then I want to buy a gallery. The director said our love is 'indecently expensive.'"

“And we’ll make it even more expensive,” promised Elio, picking you up in his arms, right over the spilled champagne.