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It is raining, cool and damp outside, but in the inn it is warm. Steam rises from the cloaks of men drinking at the tables in the tavern. Firelight dances off the walls, casting faces into sultry shadows. She searches them for something exciting, the promise of pleasure, but they are intent on their drink, their gossip, their work.
She sees the young doctor arrive at the inn, clearly new to Seville. He asks for directions to obvious places, doesn't realize his future home is across town, but he stops here for the night. He projects a nervous energy as he arranges for his baggage to be carried to his room, attempting to control the bustle of activity, although the servants pay him little heed as they gather his belongings up the stairs. He has an air of self sufficiency about him, as though he knows the magnitude of the step he is taking, arriving in this city to establish himself. This draws her eye -- this and the fact that he is more handsome a man than any of the regulars, eyeing him only perfunctorily from their stations around the tavern. Later, after he has descended the stairs again to take his dinner, she makes it a point to bring him the best offerings from the kitchen.
She comes around again with more wine; he puts a hand over her own where it holds the glass. His hands are steady, but his eyes move with nervousness held just in check.
"My lady," he begins, but further words hide behind his eyes, not yet venturing onto his tongue.
She laughs, seductive like the wine she has just poured. "Lady? Ah, señor, but the gallant army would not think so, nor the traveling men. You must be mistaken, I am but the serving girl." She winks at him, candle light reflecting on her cheeks; he pretends not to notice.
His eyes briefly stop and rest upon her features, her cascading hair, and upon her own eyes. Perhaps the wine has calmed him, or perhaps the cacophony of the inn has dulled the anxiousness he feels in a new city, and he motions for her to sit, though words do not yet break from his mouth. She sits, facing him, knees bumping table legs, his legs, and he blinks again at the touch.
"Who is this serving girl that has given me such a fine dinner? If I may call her by her name?" He asks and gives the compliment, perhaps a little stiffly.
She hesitates, then tosses her head. "Marcellina. And you, good sir? You think I am a lady?" Her eyes flirt with his, a bright mask over her face which she will not break. Behind them she is but a serving girl, for all that she might lead the men on.
"I think you are kind and well mannered, and have an eye for the choicest dinner." He avoids flirtation, looking from his wine glass to the kitchen door and back again to the table. He does not look directly at her, but his words are plain.
"My name is Bartolo; I have just arrived in Seville." He ignores or does not see the knowing smile that this revelation elicits. "I am a doctor and I mean to establish practice in the city." She wonders why he is telling her this, it is both obvious and irrelevant. But she nods and lets her eyes trace a line from his cheek to his chin, then down the front of his shirt.
"If you are a doctor, you must know a great deal about the body." She leaves her mouth open as she finishes her words, her tongue touching her lip. He flusters, but she can not know whether that is irritation at being interrupted or other thoughts distracting him.
He continues on. "As I am newly arrived, I will be needing a housekeeper when I have settled in." His meaning is clear. It is a proposition, though not of the sort she has been seeking. She laughs again, and rises.
"That you will, I dare say." She looks at him from beneath her hair again before taking herself back to the kitchen, forgetting to refill others' wineglasses on the way.
She tries again, later in the evening, after he has had his glass refilled a number of times. She has considered his proposition, but prefers her own. Her eyes dance again with his, and this time his manner has been calmed by the dinner and the drink. He is led on where he might have otherwise resisted, and soon is following her laughing face and curls of hair. He is distracted by the laces on the back of her bodice and the sway of her hips as they climb the stairs. She pulls him into his room, catching him as he is unsteady -- from the wine or the company, he is no longer sure.
He is indeed quite handsome. She strokes his neatly cut dark hair, trails her finger from his cheek down his shirt, where her eyes had traveled earlier in the evening. Underneath she finds his chest is smooth and strong and responsive to her touch. Still half clothed, he helps her from her skirts, and they fall together upon the bed.
He is a doctor, and he does know the body well; but so does she. Her hair falls over her face and spills around her breasts. She is above him, and she moves her hips against his, her wetness seeping into the cloth that still covers him. He massages her as they move, kneading her arms and shoulders, cupping one breast and then the other, bringing them to his mouth. Soon she rises again, holding his hips, and removes the rest of his clothing.
She rolls onto her back, grasping his cock and guiding it into her. He continues to massage her as he lets his lips caress her cheeks, her neck, her ear. They move together again, with more urgency, and he brings his hand between them, massaging her clit until she is gasping and writhing. A cry escapes her mouth, and suddenly he is moaning and tensing as well. She pulls him close to her, holding him as their pleasure subsides.
They sleep together, tangled in the bedclothes. As dawn lights the room, she arises. She allows herself to look on him, still asleep in the morning light, and leaves him to sleep off the wine. It is late morning when he arrives for breakfast, and he does not remember the night, though he does repeat the offer for a housekeeper. She smiles at him, but continues to carry dishes and food.
She thinks of him again, a few weeks later. She has heard that he has established practice in an elegant part of the city, while she is still tending the kitchen at the inn. A year passes, then another. Her baby is sly and rambunctious and she cannot keep him; she allows the innkeeper to take him to a better family. She is herself less outgoing than she used to be; she dreams of love, now, instead of the pleasures of the bed, but finds few prospects in the guests.
She hears, again, that a well-off doctor is looking for a housekeeper. She bundles her belongings together, leaving her secrets at the inn, and goes to find this doctor. At her interview, she is as well dressed as she can be. The house is spartan, elegant and plain at the same time. Her hair is in a tight bun upon her head, keeping its curly locks to itself. She claims her name as Berta, and she knows precisely how to fold sheets and serve a dinner. What more she knows she keeps to herself and does not let the doctor's occasional bluster overcome her. She still remembers how to dream.