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Morello wonders if he measures up…
Morello wasn’t mistaken in the faint glow the golden man’s skin had taken as he spoke on about what Master Leo thought of this and that. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn Benedetto had many lovers in Florence. He expected that from one of such beauty, manner, and intelligence. Despite the fact that Benedetto directed all his conversation to Morello as if they were the only two in the room, he was unaccountably envious of the Master Leo reflected in Benedetto’s sad eyes.
Morello was not vain. The face in the mirror, when he bothered to shave, had good symmetrical lines, a strong jaw, and sharp cheekbones. His usually uncombed hair was ink black and thick, his eyes as brown as chestnuts. The gypsy’s child, as the villagers once called him, though now they called him Master. Well, at least to his face. He and Benedetto made a strong contrast of light and dark; perhaps Benedetto found his features as pleasing as Morello found his.