A voice woke me up early in the morning. The sun was just starting to break through the French shutters, and I wasn't ready to get out of the sleepy haze of dawn. 

"Vic? Will you go for a jog with me?" It was Marcel, not yet fully dressed and kneeling by my bed. "I don't know the area."

Vic… He was getting used to calling me with that stupid diminutive. I closed my eyes and rolled over on the mattress. What made him think I would even consider joining him? 

"Try Google Maps. I'm not going with you."

To my surprise, he didn’t insist. His moves were noiseless now. Soon he left quietly, giving me a chance to sleep some more. Yet the sleep wouldn’t come…. An image of Marcel’s face and his broad, naked shoulders was vibrating in my mind, making me restless for reasons I didn't comprehend. Anger? Maybe… What else would keep me up at such an unholy hour? 

"Can I take a look?" He accosted me later that day during his break. 

"You can't." I didn’t even raise my eyes from over the sketchbook.

Luca, the other model, was doing fittings. Mom was bustling about pinning the clothes. Careful not to disrupt, I sat at the armchair in the distance and used the scene as a reference for my sketch. 

"Why so secretive?" Marcel laughed, reaching for a slice of watermelon laying on the table between us.

I tried not to pay attention to him, focusing on Luca’s proportions. My new companion’s eyes were set on me the whole time I was measuring the scene with a pencil. His piercing sight felt strong, almost physical. Was he aiming to throw me a challenge? Come on, look at me. I know why you’re avoiding my eyes, coward. My body stiffened for the sole thought of turning into his direction. Suddenly I felt immense fear of meeting his daring, disturbingly knowing eyes. 

"Alright, alright. No need to talk with me," he sighed finally and stayed quiet for a short while, chewing the fruit. "I'm going for a swim after we're done here. Wanna join?"

I finally looked him in the eye, squeezing the pencil with anger. Why was he still trying to make contact, I wondered. I was clearly showing no interest in becoming familiar with the guy. 

"Why don't you ask Dragan?" I pointed at the door to the porch, where the third model was taking a smoke. "I'm not in the mood."

He was gazing at me with a light smile, as if he was testing me, mocking me. At least that's what I was thinking about his expressions back then. 

"Why so bitter? I just thought you may use some company."

I saw him leaving the house as soon as the work was done. His heavily patterned shirt was blowing on the wind when he was running down the stairs. I heard him humming something under his breath, playing with a ripe apricot in his hands.

There were these little things I started to involuntarily notice about him. He was always moving, inventing the rhythms.  His slender fingers were constantly tapping against everyday objects. Continuously humming, jiggling, dancing around, he was like an impatient child. He couldn't care less whether or not there were other people around, shameless in his hyperactivity. 

No wonder he had to move at all times,  considering his love for sugar. Judging the way he was eating, I believed his blood must have turned into pure fructose. He would feel the scent of a fresh watermelon from a kilometer away. Not surprisingly, since he started to live with us, all the fruit began to magically disappear from around the house. Cherries, apricots, melons, strawberries, he wouldn’t spare a bite, hungry or not. Regular meals were a nuisance to him, a mild disturbance keeping him from spending all of his free time having fun outside. But as long as there was some ripe sweetness waiting in the fridge, he was ready to eat it away.

"Where on earth did he go?" Mom was looking at the clock nervously, while we were both sitting by our sewing machines in the evening.

"Swimming, he said." I replied, pretending not to have any interest in our guest's whereabouts. 

In reality I was quite curious myself. Marcel skipped dinner that day. Hours passed, the sun set, and it was already dark outside when he finally decided to show up. Mom gave him a worried look from above the fabric she was working on. 

“Sorry to be this late,” he said apologetically and sat on a chair beside me. “I tagged along to some folks by the lake, and it ran over.”

“Did you eat something? Tomorrow we're getting to work, you'll need some energy.” She continued to express her care, treating him as one of the household. The attention he was getting at every turn was making me nauseous. 

“No worries, we dined at Pizzeria. Oh, Franco and Guido asked me to convey their greetings. Lovable older gents.”

Franco and Guido were two aged locals known for their extensive penchant for lengthy stories and gambling. They were my late grandpa's peers, old enough to remember the settlement of Vagli Sotto.

“I didn't know they speak English,” I noticed, joining the conversation. 

“Abbiamo parlato in italiano. Conosco il vocabolario di base,” answered Marcel, visibly satisfied when my brows rose with surprise.  

So they talked in italian? He knew basic vocabulary? Well well, who would have thought! It seemed that athletic body of his was equipped with brains too. An unexpected turn of events indeed…

“Ragazzo sagio, wise boy” my mom smiled at him, finishing the seam of the blouse she was working on.

“Wait, did you play cards with them?” I asked, even more shocked. “They are notorious cheats.” 

Those guys were practically mugging unaware tourists enchanted with the atmosphere and steamed with local rosso. Was Marcel just another out-of-town getting naively duped by our local mafia-wannabes? 

“I might have lost some money,” he agreed, slightly embarrassed. “But I gained new friends. Good fun and good company are priceless.” 

He continued to boast about the afternoon, about the people he met, about the lake and the village. It turned out it was my childhood friends he went swimming with. I felt a thug of jealousy all of a sudden, not sure whether it was him I envied, or Carmina and Paolina he started to hang out with. 

I wouldn't admit it then, but my intruder turned out to be pretty interesting. His enthusiasm about the place, about the people was somehow fascinating. He was falling in love with Tuscany for the first time. I was a little envious. Those were feelings a bored local like me, used to the beauty of these surroundings, could never fully comprehend. I could sense his excitement, the pure joy of living the moment. And my attitude towards him slowly started to shift…