and narrow side streets, nearly catching him, only to lose him as he leapt over a crate of oranges that I tripped over, scattering fruit and earning an earful of Italian curses.
I scrambled to my feet, yelling an out of breath "Mi scusi, mi dispiace!"
Yeah, I've learned a little Italian.
I caught sight of the little thief rounding a corner, pulling away from me, and I heard sobs scrape out of my throat.
"No, please," I gasped, stretching out my arm as he began to move out of sight.
Then, a miracle. The boy turned back to look at me, almost apologetically. He didn't slow, but he seemed to realize how distraught I was. He turned back around, poured on more speed....and then a body shot out from a doorway, knocking the boy against a wall and held him there with one hand.
Hello, tall dark and handsome. He was holding a cell phone to his ear, talking into it in lilting, rapid Italian, holding the runaway thief against the wall with the other hand. His grip on the boy's shoulder was obviously crushing, as the boy was squirming and shrieking, scrabbling at the man's hand with both of his, my backpack dropped at his feet.
(I've since learned enough Italian to be able to guess what they were saying. For the sake of storytelling, I'll transcribe their words in Italian, as I heard them, in other words, un-translated and confusing.)
"Lasciatemi andare! Mi dispiace! Non farmi del male! Lo darò indietro!" The boy's voice was high-pitched, panicked.
"Dovrò richiamare," The man said into the phone, then hung up and stuck into the pocket of his tight jeans. "Zitto, ragazzo," he said in a harsh voice, shaking the thief.
I hurried to them, snatched up my bag and made sure the important things were all there, which they were. The boy was looking as if the man was really hurting him, and I felt bad for him. He was skinny and dirty and hungry-looking, desperate.
"Let him go," I said, in English. "I have my bag back. Don't hurt him."
"Tell the American lady you're sorry," the man said, in accented English.
"Sorry! I'm sorry, American! I only am hungry. Mi dispiace! Please, let go!"
The man shook the boy once more, then let go, shoving him away, growling in accented but fluent English, "Get out of here, boy. If I catch you stealing again, I'll turn you over to the police."
The boy nodded, pale and shaking, and vanished around a corner. I zipped my bag and shrugged it on, then looked up and found myself pinned to the wall by the most arresting pair of dark brown eyes I'd ever seen. He didn't just look at me, he seemed to be looking into me. Seeing all of me, as if I were naked before him, vulnerable and soft.
My breath caught, and I couldn't look away. I felt strong fingers touch my palms, scraped from my fall.
"You are bleeding," he said, his voice and accent turning even those mundane words into music.
"I'm...fine," I said. My hand was still in his, his touch like fire, sending thrills through my body. "Just a scrape..."
"No, you need care. Your knees are a mess as well. Come, please come." He tugged me by the hand, gentle but insistent. "My flat is just there. I can have you cleaned up in only a moment."
I looked down and realized my knees were oozing blood too. And now, suddenly, they stung. And I was sweating...
I let him show me up a narrow flight of steep stairs to an airy one-room apartment. It was clean and neat, a galley kitchen, a small balcony overlooking the street, a small table covered by a white linen cloth and an empty wine bottle turned into a candle.
"Sit, please," he said, pushing me into a chair.
He wet the corner of a towel and dabbed at my hands, kneeling between my knees. His presence was a hot, electric fire in my veins, his inky hair drifting across his eyes, his brow furrowed as he oh so gently dabbed at my palms, then each knee.
"There, you are clean now. You want a bandage or no?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine, thanks," I said.
What I wanted was for him to keep touching me. Just his hands on mine, or
I scrambled to my feet, yelling an out of breath "Mi scusi, mi dispiace!"
Yeah, I've learned a little Italian.
I caught sight of the little thief rounding a corner, pulling away from me, and I heard sobs scrape out of my throat.
"No, please," I gasped, stretching out my arm as he began to move out of sight.
Then, a miracle. The boy turned back to look at me, almost apologetically. He didn't slow, but he seemed to realize how distraught I was. He turned back around, poured on more speed....and then a body shot out from a doorway, knocking the boy against a wall and held him there with one hand.
Hello, tall dark and handsome. He was holding a cell phone to his ear, talking into it in lilting, rapid Italian, holding the runaway thief against the wall with the other hand. His grip on the boy's shoulder was obviously crushing, as the boy was squirming and shrieking, scrabbling at the man's hand with both of his, my backpack dropped at his feet.
(I've since learned enough Italian to be able to guess what they were saying. For the sake of storytelling, I'll transcribe their words in Italian, as I heard them, in other words, un-translated and confusing.)
"Lasciatemi andare! Mi dispiace! Non farmi del male! Lo darò indietro!" The boy's voice was high-pitched, panicked.
"Dovrò richiamare," The man said into the phone, then hung up and stuck into the pocket of his tight jeans. "Zitto, ragazzo," he said in a harsh voice, shaking the thief.
I hurried to them, snatched up my bag and made sure the important things were all there, which they were. The boy was looking as if the man was really hurting him, and I felt bad for him. He was skinny and dirty and hungry-looking, desperate.
"Let him go," I said, in English. "I have my bag back. Don't hurt him."
"Tell the American lady you're sorry," the man said, in accented English.
"Sorry! I'm sorry, American! I only am hungry. Mi dispiace! Please, let go!"
The man shook the boy once more, then let go, shoving him away, growling in accented but fluent English, "Get out of here, boy. If I catch you stealing again, I'll turn you over to the police."
The boy nodded, pale and shaking, and vanished around a corner. I zipped my bag and shrugged it on, then looked up and found myself pinned to the wall by the most arresting pair of dark brown eyes I'd ever seen. He didn't just look at me, he seemed to be looking into me. Seeing all of me, as if I were naked before him, vulnerable and soft.
My breath caught, and I couldn't look away. I felt strong fingers touch my palms, scraped from my fall.
"You are bleeding," he said, his voice and accent turning even those mundane words into music.
"I'm...fine," I said. My hand was still in his, his touch like fire, sending thrills through my body. "Just a scrape..."
"No, you need care. Your knees are a mess as well. Come, please come." He tugged me by the hand, gentle but insistent. "My flat is just there. I can have you cleaned up in only a moment."
I looked down and realized my knees were oozing blood too. And now, suddenly, they stung. And I was sweating...
I let him show me up a narrow flight of steep stairs to an airy one-room apartment. It was clean and neat, a galley kitchen, a small balcony overlooking the street, a small table covered by a white linen cloth and an empty wine bottle turned into a candle.
"Sit, please," he said, pushing me into a chair.
He wet the corner of a towel and dabbed at my hands, kneeling between my knees. His presence was a hot, electric fire in my veins, his inky hair drifting across his eyes, his brow furrowed as he oh so gently dabbed at my palms, then each knee.
"There, you are clean now. You want a bandage or no?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine, thanks," I said.
What I wanted was for him to keep touching me. Just his hands on mine, or
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