“My God, where are they?!” he mutters impatiently. “Wait, let me turn on a light.”
The lamp dimly illuminates the room, highlighting every muscle of Michael’s body, truly sculpted by the hand of Michelangelo. I have to close my eyes so I don’t lose my mind.
“Nooo!” he exclaims in dismay.
“What?”
“There are no condoms.”
I can’t believe my ears. “What do you mean there are no condoms?”
“I left them in the room in Florence.”
“Are you kidding?!” I exclaim.
We look at each other with disappointment and dismay. “You’re not on the pill, by any chance?”
“Why would I be? I haven’t had a relationship since my daughter was in elementary school.”
“Say no more.”
“And no quail jumping,” I warn him.
“Quail jumping?” he stops, confused.
“Pulling out,” I explain.
“Ahh, got it. But why quails? How do quails jump?”
“It’s an expression ... how do they say it in England?”
“To leave the church before the singing begins,” he replies in all seriousness.
“Seriously?”
“It makes a lot more sense than ‘quail jumping’!” he laughs.
“But it’s ridiculous,” I counter.
“Why? Isn’t it funny to think of a man hopping around with a hard-on?”
“Are we seriously sitting here comparing idioms? Let’s go get those condoms!”
45
Michael
We leave the villa as if it were on fire and jump onto Elisa’s blue Vespa.
“Start the engine,” I urge, my helmet still unfastened.
“Damn it. I’m out of gas,” she grumbles.
“The Cinquecento! Let’s take that,” I suggest.
In less than a minute, we’re in the car, headed for the village.
“Who sells condoms at this hour?” I ask her.
