Training in Love by Manuela Pigna

liking.”
    Finally
her face relaxes, I think she understands what I mean. “Yes, but you don’t meet
up with Brad Pitt three times a week… alone,” she says, lifting her eyebrows
allusively.
    Nothing
– I can’t help it – I laugh again. “Oh, Linda…,” I answer shaking my head.
“Believe me, it would be the same if I met up with Brad Pitt three times a
week! Nothing would happen anyway between me and Brad, ever. Never anything in
a million years of seeing each other three times a week. And you know why?
Simply because we belong to different levels,” I end, as though explaining
something very easy to someone who should have already been versed on the
subject. “In fact, if you’ve noticed, Brad is with Angelina Jolie, another
inhabitant of his same level.”
    “You’re
saying that this Andrea belongs to the level of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?” She
asks keeping her eyebrows raised, but this time to express skepticism. Profound
skepticism.
    “Exactly!”
I answer laughing.
    Linda
narrows her eyes. “You’ve invented this thing about levels and you’re the only
one who believes it, I’m sorry to inform you. Anyway, I’d really like to see
this guy in person.”
    I
laugh. “Marco would kill me if you ended up leaving him for Andrea, but… if you
want, you can come Thursday morning to the cafè. He and Nic have started having
breakfast there on Thursdays. Or at least it’s been like that up until last
Thursday…”
    “Really?”
She asks, surprised.
    “Yes.”
    “I
didn’t know anything about it.”
    I
laugh. “But why, do you know all about your brother-in-law’s movements?”
    Linda
crosses her arms on her chest. I can tell from her look that she has doubts,
that something doesn’t add up – like in an equation – and until it does, she
won’t let it go. “No, but I would have thought it normal to tell me if he sees
my best friend every week…”
    “Oh
God, Lindy!” I exclaim finally, lightly exasperated at her Machiavellian
attitude. “Let’s not embroider the facts. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    She
replies with a noncommittal “Hmm”.
    I
sigh and shake my head.
    “And
in any case,” she says after a bit, “For the record, no-one is more handsome
than Marco. Not even Brad Pitt.”
    I
smile. Ah, l’ amour !
    7.
     
    A week
later I’m waiting for Andrea at the bike track. Today, which is Saturday and
I’m not working, we’ve decided to move our appointment to the morning, because
Saturday afternoon the path is overflowing with people and I’m embarrassed a
little because of the indecent appearance I have after a couple of minutes of
running. It’s not very early though, because I categorically refused to wake up
before nine on a weekend day. If it were up to Andrea we would have met up at
seven. He even unconsciously suggested it.
    “Hi.”
    I
jump and jerk around towards the voice at my back. “Where did you come from?” I
ask him, vaguely indignant.
    “I
came earlier and took advantage of the time to do a little of my own workout,”
he answers breathlessly, and I notice the state he’s in – a post-jogging state.
If you can call Andrea’s extremist running workout “jogging” – red cheeks, messed
hair, a veil of sweat which covers his forehead and drips from his temples, his
chest which rises and falls in the slightly adherent T-shirt. It’s the first
time I’ve seen him without a baggy tracksuit and, good heavens, it was better
not knowing.
    Andrea
is practically Linda, Andrea is practically Linda, Andrea is practically Linda.
    My
gaze involuntarily slides to his pectorals and I think that today with my
mantra I’ll have to go over my usual dozen times. If he doesn’t cover up I’ll
probably have to repeat it the entire time.
    Andrea
follows my gaze and maybe thinks the same thing, because he picks up the
sweatshirt that was thrown at the foot of the tree near the beginning of the
bike path and puts it on. I redden slightly and turn away. And