long they cast shadows on your cheeks, and your chin . . . I could try to copy the curve, but I’d never do it justice. And you know, Carlotta, you’ve got a neck that a swan would be jealous of.”
I should probably ask him to stop, but I’m enjoying this. I confess, I’m a little bit excited. Not sexually, I mean. Emotionally. I feel like an awkward preteen who’s been ensnared by a bunch of bullshit.
A beam of flashing lights crossing the sky leads us to Chiodo. Armando is so out of his element, he seems almost on the verge of hysterics. I won’t let him get to me, though. We park the car near Luca’s, and the ulcer in my stomach sears as we hit the red carpet. A bouncer who resembles a giant redwood checks us out, then we go inside. The place is huge. Stone arches separate it into several rooms, some with tables and some with sofas, and one dedicated to dancing. We check our coats and search for the bar. My nerves pound in my ears as loudly as the music. I must be losing it. I see Luca every day—I just saw him a few hours ago—but I’m acting as if I haven’t seen him in a century.
As we approach the bar, Tony politely takes my elbow in his hand, and we walk over with Giovanna and a very distraught Armando. At the polished wooden counter, where drinkers crowd around like ants, we sit down on four leather stools. My eyes wander in search of Luca. All the bartenders are dressed like him, though: white shirt, dark pants, a hint of a beard, and an impish air. They pour out liquor with acrobatic skill, sliding the tumblers across the counter, smiling, winking, and waiting for the next customer who wants an extra dose of alcoholic pampering.
Finally, I see him. He’s farther down the bar, laughing with a group of escort-free hens. All of a sudden, I feel hot. Tony asks everyone what we’d like to drink; I go for a cosmopolitan. The wine I drank with dinner should last me for seven lifetimes, but with a cosmo in hand, I’ll look like Carrie in Sex and the City . Tony chooses a dry gin and gives the order to a bartender—not Luca. Then Luca switches spots with that bartender. Perhaps he’s sick of pretending to flirt with those fifty-year-old cougars, who were clearly attempting to undress him with their eyes. He leans over to help a gorgeous blonde who’s wearing something that resembles a towel. Perched on the stool, she strategically crosses her legs so that she offers him a quick glimpse of the equipment concealed between her thighs. He fills a glass for her, perhaps wondering what else of hers he can fill after his shift. Giovanna and Armando head off to the sofas. Tony whispers into my ear, asking me if I want to dance. I say yes at the exact moment that Luca sees us.
I can be satisfied. At least he recognizes me, and if only for a moment, I diverted his attention from the Scarlett Johansson look-alike. His expression is dazed, as if I were the last person he expected to see, but he nods and smiles at me, and the smile I give him back is happy. Then he frowns, suddenly serious, and his tiredness shows on his face.
The dance room is quieter—the music a slow sax solo—so we can talk. Tony hugs me with discreet energy, talking about himself and his art, while I sneak peeks over at the bar, only half listening and occasionally nodding. Suddenly, Giovanna appears through the crowd and drags me into the bathroom. She seems nervous.
“Nothing I ever do is good enough for him!” she blurts out when the door closes. “He says I’m too risqué and that some guy was just staring at my tits.”
“It’s weird that he doesn’t like your shirt,” I say. “I thought he was into minimalism.”
“Oh, don’t you start!” she says with a snort. She powders her nose and checks her neckline in the mirror. “I don’t see anything!”
“Gio, you know that I love Armando like I love ex-lax in my lemonade, but you can’t deny that you’re practically naked. You’re beautiful, but you’re naked, and
I should probably ask him to stop, but I’m enjoying this. I confess, I’m a little bit excited. Not sexually, I mean. Emotionally. I feel like an awkward preteen who’s been ensnared by a bunch of bullshit.
A beam of flashing lights crossing the sky leads us to Chiodo. Armando is so out of his element, he seems almost on the verge of hysterics. I won’t let him get to me, though. We park the car near Luca’s, and the ulcer in my stomach sears as we hit the red carpet. A bouncer who resembles a giant redwood checks us out, then we go inside. The place is huge. Stone arches separate it into several rooms, some with tables and some with sofas, and one dedicated to dancing. We check our coats and search for the bar. My nerves pound in my ears as loudly as the music. I must be losing it. I see Luca every day—I just saw him a few hours ago—but I’m acting as if I haven’t seen him in a century.
As we approach the bar, Tony politely takes my elbow in his hand, and we walk over with Giovanna and a very distraught Armando. At the polished wooden counter, where drinkers crowd around like ants, we sit down on four leather stools. My eyes wander in search of Luca. All the bartenders are dressed like him, though: white shirt, dark pants, a hint of a beard, and an impish air. They pour out liquor with acrobatic skill, sliding the tumblers across the counter, smiling, winking, and waiting for the next customer who wants an extra dose of alcoholic pampering.
Finally, I see him. He’s farther down the bar, laughing with a group of escort-free hens. All of a sudden, I feel hot. Tony asks everyone what we’d like to drink; I go for a cosmopolitan. The wine I drank with dinner should last me for seven lifetimes, but with a cosmo in hand, I’ll look like Carrie in Sex and the City . Tony chooses a dry gin and gives the order to a bartender—not Luca. Then Luca switches spots with that bartender. Perhaps he’s sick of pretending to flirt with those fifty-year-old cougars, who were clearly attempting to undress him with their eyes. He leans over to help a gorgeous blonde who’s wearing something that resembles a towel. Perched on the stool, she strategically crosses her legs so that she offers him a quick glimpse of the equipment concealed between her thighs. He fills a glass for her, perhaps wondering what else of hers he can fill after his shift. Giovanna and Armando head off to the sofas. Tony whispers into my ear, asking me if I want to dance. I say yes at the exact moment that Luca sees us.
I can be satisfied. At least he recognizes me, and if only for a moment, I diverted his attention from the Scarlett Johansson look-alike. His expression is dazed, as if I were the last person he expected to see, but he nods and smiles at me, and the smile I give him back is happy. Then he frowns, suddenly serious, and his tiredness shows on his face.
The dance room is quieter—the music a slow sax solo—so we can talk. Tony hugs me with discreet energy, talking about himself and his art, while I sneak peeks over at the bar, only half listening and occasionally nodding. Suddenly, Giovanna appears through the crowd and drags me into the bathroom. She seems nervous.
“Nothing I ever do is good enough for him!” she blurts out when the door closes. “He says I’m too risqué and that some guy was just staring at my tits.”
“It’s weird that he doesn’t like your shirt,” I say. “I thought he was into minimalism.”
“Oh, don’t you start!” she says with a snort. She powders her nose and checks her neckline in the mirror. “I don’t see anything!”
“Gio, you know that I love Armando like I love ex-lax in my lemonade, but you can’t deny that you’re practically naked. You’re beautiful, but you’re naked, and
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