He winks at you and it’s both an invitation and a warning. I’ve never seen other men like winking like that. Perhaps it is because the Italians know the power of a glance. They know that the eyes say everything that threatens to silence the lack of a common language. When I walk the streets of the Old World, I am convinced that I have met my soulmate a hundred times, and as I said, I do not even believe in them. But oh, they’ll make you believe, my dear. They frame their mixed intentions with long, dark eyelashes and long-lasting looks. As if nobody had ever taught them that it was rude to stare at them. But they’ll say things you can’t think of to answer quickly, like, “But if something’s nice, why shouldn’t I look at it?” Beauty deserves to be admired. Like a Botticelli or a sunset from Piazzale Michelangelo. Like you. ” The feminist in me wants to hate everything and hate her, but then she’s still a little old-fashioned romantic and there really is no point in pretending that they always see through you anyway. So the wink leads to an invitation to dinner and you ignore the warning part of it. He brings red roses and drives so fast that you can never really tell whether your racing heart is due to the speed or the way he looks at you. Then there is that perfect red wine frenzy, he’ll order bottles of Brunello as if the world would end tomorrow and you have to live your whole life in one night. And the warmth of the wine spreads to all the places you want your hands to be, and the thought is exciting, isn’t it? When the lips meet, a world merges like a meeting of the continents. He is out Here and you are from there and for a cosmic moment the universe somehow brought you together to this trattoria, on an unlit street, somewhere in Rome and far from reality. After the shutdown (it is now after midnight), leave the hotel completely and still want it. And again, words are superfluous because he knows what you want without asking if you are on the wall, surrounded by history, a thousand other lovers who came before you and their stories forever from every stone under your feet be held. He’s going to have his hands in your hair, they love that. And there will be neck kisses because they love that too. And that will be enough to dream you of going back to Rome. Until then, you spent your whole life in one night with him, the Italian.
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