"Luca." She called, her voice a warning.
He ignored the warning, his fingers moving higher.
"Be nice," she said, trying to remember what she'd been saying before his hand started doing that. "I don't want to keep her waiting. Her husband is refusing to get a life insurance policy and she's been going back and forth on this already—"
"I don't give a fuck about her right now."
"Luca."
"I genuinely do not."
"Which also—" she moved his hand, or tried to, "—which also reminds me, you really do need to make that compulsory. "
"I will do anything," he said, "if you just give me some love right now. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Five minutes, Bambola."
"When we get home."
"And then we get home and you're exhausted and you fall asleep and I lie there staring at the ceiling like a monk." He let his head drop against her shoulder, and she felt him exhale — long, mournful, theatrical. He spoke like a lost puppy that had been left outside in the rain.
