StorytellingPicks #1

First of all, welcome to all English-speaking readers!
Since some of my works have been translated into English, I thought it would be appropriate to share a few short passages from those translations for readers who don't speak Italian.
So, here we are, with a brief extract from my novel "That Night."
I hope you enjoy it!

It was the whisky that gave him the courage his fears had denied him for weeks. That evening Marco finally rose from his corner table, his legs slightly unsteady, and made his way to the bar where she sat — a pagan goddess wrapped in her aura of dejection.
“May I?” he murmured, gesturing to the stool beside her. He heard his own voice as though it belonged to someone else, rougher than usual from the alcohol and the emotion closing his throat. For a moment he was certain she would brush him off, but she didn’t. She turned, offering a half-smile, and for the first time Marco could see her up close.
Her eyes spoke a silent language he understood perfectly.
In that gaze there was a light that made him feel at home — that reminded him of the nights when he had been the one feeling alone.
“It’s free,” she said, adjusting her initial smile into something more convincing.
He sat down beside her and raised a hand towards Blerim to order another whisky.
The silence between them stretched for a few seconds, thick with unspoken things.
“I’m Marco,” he finally mumbled, feeling grotesquely formal.
“Eva,” she replied, with equal brevity. The name struck him as perfect for a goddess — biblical and modern at the same time.
“I see you here often,” she added. “Are you one of those who drinks to forget, or to unwind?”
The question caught him off guard, and he allowed himself a moment to think. “To forget, I’d say.”
“Bad story?” she asked.
“Decidedly,” he said. He took a sip, feeling the liquid burn his throat. “And you? What brings you here every evening?”
Eva dissolved into laughter — a crystalline sound that lit up the bar’s gloomy atmosphere. “I suffer from insomnia. I’d rather be awake in company than alone at home staring at the ceiling.”
“…that makes sense,” he said. “And what do you do for a living?”
“I have a tattoo studio not far from here. ‘Ink & Soul’ — if you ever pass by.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray with fluid movements. “But let’s talk about you instead. What do you do when you’re not trying to drown your memories in alcohol?”
Marco looked at her, struck by the way she managed to be direct without becoming offensive. “I used to drive buses. Now… well, now I don’t drive anything.”
“Accident?”
“Something like that.”
Eva studied him for a moment, trying to read beyond the words. “You’re mysterious. I like that.”