“Will you let me finish the story?” I ask, resting a finger on her lips. “One man in particular can’t take his eyes off you because even though your dress doesn’t reveal an inch of skin, you’re magnetic. It’s clear from a mile away you’re nothing like any of the other women in the room, that you’re a cut above, and for someone like you, he’s going to have to work hard. He convinces his friends to sit at the next table and strikes up a conversation. Plot twist: The man turns out to be surprisingly interesting and doesn’t seem like a total nutcase, so you’re happy to chat. You finish your first drink without even realizing it, so when he offers you a second, you accept. You talk for a long time. He loves listening to you, and even ventures some physical contact; he touches your hand, your arm, and you let him because you like his attention.”
“Fantastical but interesting reconstruction. Go on.”
“Giada’s tired, she wants to go home, and one of the others offers to accompany her. You’re undecided between staying and going, because you’re having fun and the man has a certain something. The two of you stay and chat for hours until you’re the last people in the bar, to the point that they have to tell you it’s closing time. On the street, with so much left to say, the man suggests a walk along the river, and as you walk, he takes you by the hand.”
“This man is enterprising. Does he have a name?”
“Let’s call him Michael.”
“This Michael is enterprising,” she repeats, her lips breaking into a smile when she says my name. “Keep going. I’m curious now.”
“You decide you like Michael, you decide not to be shy, and you tell him. You stop on the Lungarno, he holds you close, and you putyour arms around his neck.” I guide her gestures to do exactly what I just described.
“Like this?” she asks me, intertwining her fingers behind my neck. “Just like that,” I whisper, bringing my mouth closer to hers.
“And then?”
“And then, this happens.”
42
Elisa
“And then?”
“And then, this happens,” he murmurs, his mouth against mine.
Michael’s kisses have become something I can’t do without, after oxygen and water. Or maybe even before oxygen and water.
When Michael kisses, he kisses with his whole body, and I feel it everywhere.
Tonight I realized how he really does have the ability to attract every female being within a mile radius.
In Belvedere, it was no contest, but while we were in line for the schiacciata, I noticed how all the women, young and old, single and taken, did nothing but glance at him on the sly. I even caught someone sneaking a photo of him and then—I swear—even a poodle with a pink bow and a rhinestone collar stopped to sniff him and cling to his leg.
You don’t see many men as handsome as he is, and at the risk of appearing superficial and vain, being the one on his arm did quite a bit for my confidence. I even enjoyed catching a few envious glances.
I don’t think I’ve ever been envied by anyone in my life, and for once I also feel worthy. I’m dressed like a goddess—Giada pulled out a dress she bought at an haute couture fair, which she got because, she said, “You never know and, in any case, it was such a good deal.” I feelbetter than I have in years, and I’m with a spectacular man who only has eyes for me.
Am I superficial? Very well, then, I’m superficial.
“It seems like my hypothetical evening is going pretty well,” I laugh.
“Mine too.”
“I’m starting to wonder what Michael and Elisa will do next ... You interrupted the story just when it was getting good.”
“You’re about to find out.”
If Michael were drafted into the army, he would be a sharpshooter. Every shot, a hit.
In the hottest ten minutes in history, with several breaks along the way to kiss where we had the chance, we reached one of the most central hotels in the city, a stone’s throw from the Duomo.
Lost as I am in my fantasies, I absentmindedly catch the words “panoramic suite” at check-in before we step inside the elevator. And elevators, as we know, have that strange something that releases inhibitory brakes. Luckily the ride is short; otherwise, we wouldn’t have made it to the room, and it would have been a shame because it istheroom.
It’s not just one of those magazine-perfect rooms—it’s more unique than that. “Come have a look,” Michael says, throwing open the French windows.
To say it’s jaw-dropping is an understatement: The terrace directly overlooks the cupola of the Duomo and Giotto’s bell tower. They’re so close, I could touch them, plus there’s a full Jacuzzi, with wine chilling in an ice bucket and two glasses, all in the glow of an outdoor fireplace. Now I understand the meaning of “panoramic suite.”
