CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO

IMPROVABLE.

She ordered garlic-rubbed picanha, and Otávio didn't order anything. She would thank him and say that he wouldn't eat anything, that he was just accompanying her, smiling at all the waiters. The picanha arrived and it was wonderful. She moaned at the succulent taste of the meat and the citrusy vinaigrette that accompanied it. At eight o'clock, the restaurant seemed to become busier, many people arrived, laughing and talking loudly. The music played by the duo also grew louder, and this was one more reason for her to get up and leave. Otávio's discomfort was visible, to the point that a waiter serving the table next to him put his hand on his shoulder and asked if he was feeling well. Otávio quickly stood up at the unexpected touch, and the waiter's tray flipped over, soaking the floor with a thick, red sauce.

By the grace of heavens, Otávio wasn't hit by the hot and vivid red sauce, or he would have had a heart attack from the germs.

Clara jumped to her feet and apologised