There’s a lot she would tell him in Spanish, things she could never say to him otherwise. “Bésame.” Kiss me. Perhaps she might.

“Somewhat like Italian.”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“Nessun Dorma.”

“The Puccini song?” 

“Yes, though they’re not Puccini’s words. Do you know what it’s about?”

“No.”

“It’s from Turandot. She was a princess, a cold princess.”

“What’s the innuendo for? I’m not cold.”

Hard, he thinks. Driven, without thought sometimes, or the complete opposite: her mind set, calculating, regardless of anything or anyone. She cannot see that he needs from her too. Needs her to tell him how she feels and what she likes from inside, not the surface. He knows well enough what her body wants. 

“No, but you’re stubborn.”

“And that equates to?”

“Obstinate.”

“I still don’t get the point, except for your mastery of the English language. What’s the opera about?”

“Turandot will marry the man who can answer her riddles. Riddles she invents.”

“And if he doesn’t?”