fallen off an imaginary tightrope, I just didn’t get it. A few seconds passed before reality smacked me in the face like the proverbial halibut. I hurried forward, wrapped the mortified Giorgio in his cape, and escorted him away from an audience mix of snickers and disappointed murmurs.
***
Back in his apartment, Giorgio didn’t bother to undress before finding the refuge of his bed, the whole scenario a bit over the top for me. He curled into a ball, and stared into not a damn thing. Had he stuck his thumb into his mouth, I swear I’d’ve left on the spot. Instead, I lay down beside him, spoon fashion until the steady Zs of his deep breathing passed on to me. Hours later when we both awoke, I brought his little soldier back to life with promises of more to come if he’d indulge my modern sensibility by removing that ridiculous costume. He finally gave into my demand but only because I teased and petted him into a frenzied submission. Wearing nothing more than my lace panties with the open crotch, I climbed aboard, determined to make both of us forget the mortifying afternoon that never should’ve, make that would’ve, happened, if only … ah-h … a little music, please.
We were tighter than two drunken sailors and every bit as naughty whe n I heard the start of a wail that soon evolved into a scream, piercing every wall and crevice in Giorgio’s bedroom.
“Gi orgio!” a woman cried out, her voice already having passed the stage of hysteria.
I turned to see what can only be described as The Mama Italiana from Hell . Well-fed, well-groomed, definitely not well-mannered, regurgitating a string of Italian words, most of which I didn’t understand except for one: the very nasty puttanesca . The nerve of that b-i-t-c-h: calling me a whore, what about her insatiable son I’d been doing my utmost to satisfy. Before I had the chance to roll off of Giorgio, he sat up and dumped me. Without so much as a mi scusi , onto the polished floorboards that felt every bit as unyielding as they were meant to look.
If that wasn’ t enough, Mama Italiana showed me her forefinger and pinky, what I took as the Italian version of our American bird, only worse since Giorgio shouted, “No, Mama, no!”
When Mama Italiano stomped her foot, he responded with his own string of Italian words that sounded way too apologetic for a grown man and prompted her to fling a handful of euros in my direction. Forefinger pointed toward the door, she ordered me to leave. The ultimate humiliation and for sure one I never want repeated—never, ever, never.
El sweet El , where are you. I need you—now!
Chapter 12
Lemons and Anchovies
Lorenzo knew what he was talking about when it came to the lemons and anchovies: a superb combination and even more so when eaten in the comfort of an oversized terrycloth robe he’d been gracious enough to lend me. Add to that his private balcony enclosed with iron railing, its view of the sun’s red and orange hues setting on the Ligurian Sea. I followed his lead, wiping my plate with small pieces of bread to absorb the salty remnants of olive oil and lemon juice—what a delicious yet simple treat. He offered coffee. I refused, remembering my hyperactive bout from the previous night.
H ad that weird scene occurred less than twenty-four hours before? Where had the time gone? Where had the mysterious woman gone? Would she return to feed her entourage of cats? So many questions remained unanswered, probably due to over-thinking what didn’t concern me. Nor should it have. After stifling an overdue yawn, I knew enough to end on a high note.
“This has been a terrific evening,” I said. “But we really should go back to the villa.”
“Or, you are welcome to spend the night here.”
Oh, yes, I wanted to hug him for asking. No, not really . “If it’s not too much trouble ….”
“I would not have offered if it were.”
“You’ll call your z ia so she won’t worry?”
“I’ve
***
Back in his apartment, Giorgio didn’t bother to undress before finding the refuge of his bed, the whole scenario a bit over the top for me. He curled into a ball, and stared into not a damn thing. Had he stuck his thumb into his mouth, I swear I’d’ve left on the spot. Instead, I lay down beside him, spoon fashion until the steady Zs of his deep breathing passed on to me. Hours later when we both awoke, I brought his little soldier back to life with promises of more to come if he’d indulge my modern sensibility by removing that ridiculous costume. He finally gave into my demand but only because I teased and petted him into a frenzied submission. Wearing nothing more than my lace panties with the open crotch, I climbed aboard, determined to make both of us forget the mortifying afternoon that never should’ve, make that would’ve, happened, if only … ah-h … a little music, please.
We were tighter than two drunken sailors and every bit as naughty whe n I heard the start of a wail that soon evolved into a scream, piercing every wall and crevice in Giorgio’s bedroom.
“Gi orgio!” a woman cried out, her voice already having passed the stage of hysteria.
I turned to see what can only be described as The Mama Italiana from Hell . Well-fed, well-groomed, definitely not well-mannered, regurgitating a string of Italian words, most of which I didn’t understand except for one: the very nasty puttanesca . The nerve of that b-i-t-c-h: calling me a whore, what about her insatiable son I’d been doing my utmost to satisfy. Before I had the chance to roll off of Giorgio, he sat up and dumped me. Without so much as a mi scusi , onto the polished floorboards that felt every bit as unyielding as they were meant to look.
If that wasn’ t enough, Mama Italiana showed me her forefinger and pinky, what I took as the Italian version of our American bird, only worse since Giorgio shouted, “No, Mama, no!”
When Mama Italiano stomped her foot, he responded with his own string of Italian words that sounded way too apologetic for a grown man and prompted her to fling a handful of euros in my direction. Forefinger pointed toward the door, she ordered me to leave. The ultimate humiliation and for sure one I never want repeated—never, ever, never.
El sweet El , where are you. I need you—now!
Chapter 12
Lemons and Anchovies
Lorenzo knew what he was talking about when it came to the lemons and anchovies: a superb combination and even more so when eaten in the comfort of an oversized terrycloth robe he’d been gracious enough to lend me. Add to that his private balcony enclosed with iron railing, its view of the sun’s red and orange hues setting on the Ligurian Sea. I followed his lead, wiping my plate with small pieces of bread to absorb the salty remnants of olive oil and lemon juice—what a delicious yet simple treat. He offered coffee. I refused, remembering my hyperactive bout from the previous night.
H ad that weird scene occurred less than twenty-four hours before? Where had the time gone? Where had the mysterious woman gone? Would she return to feed her entourage of cats? So many questions remained unanswered, probably due to over-thinking what didn’t concern me. Nor should it have. After stifling an overdue yawn, I knew enough to end on a high note.
“This has been a terrific evening,” I said. “But we really should go back to the villa.”
“Or, you are welcome to spend the night here.”
Oh, yes, I wanted to hug him for asking. No, not really . “If it’s not too much trouble ….”
“I would not have offered if it were.”
“You’ll call your z ia so she won’t worry?”
“I’ve
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