“Look, normal ones are fine,” I explain.
“Tropical fruit?”
“No fruit.”
“Stimulants for her? Or a slowing agent for him?” he asks me with a conspiring wink.
“I don’t need to delay anything,” I declare with a surge of pride. “Just normal, my God! You don’t have anything normal?”
“Otherwise,” continues the pharmacist, ignoring me, “I have this assortment of forty: aloe, extra-lubricated, anatomical, anti-allergenic ...”
“We’ll take it,” Elisa exclaims.
“Excellent choice, congratulations. I always recommend it to undecided shoppers. I’ll put it in a bag for you.”
“No, that’s fine,” Elisa stops him, desperate.
“Oh, that’ll be twenty-seven euros and forty-five cents.”
“Card,” I say, pressing my Visa through the little window.
“Actually ...” he wavers, “we have a fifty-euro minimum for cards. You know how it is. Fees these days ...”
“We’ll take them all,” I say.
“They expire, you realize,” he warns us.
“I think we’ll be okay. Now swipe my damned card, please.”
Victorious, with our loot in hand, we rush back to the car and drive off.
“The last time I saw this many condoms, I was twenty-three years old and on holiday in Ibiza with the university club.”
“I see, and who should be jealous now?” she teases me.
“In a few minutes, you’ll have proof you don’t have to be.” The car, however, begins to struggle, the engine croaks, then snorts once, twice, three times, and after a powerful jolt, smoke rises from the hood, and we come to a halt in the middle of the road.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Elisa murmurs.
“I think I pushed it a little too hard,” I observe, deflated. I try to start it again, but the engine doesn’t turn. “We can walk back,” I suggest.
“Two miles of hills? I hope you’re joking.”
“You’re right.”
We look into each other’s eyes, in silence, at the limits of our endurance, until Elisa jumps on top of me, throws down the backrest, and we find ourselves in a sort of semi-reclined position. “You know what, Michael? Let’s go for it. It’s you and me, here, now. I like you. I want you. I can’t wait a second longer.”
“I’m in.”
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and somehow we manage to get undressed. Elisa hits the horn with her butt, then I unfold my leg and hit my knee somewhere on the dash.
“Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah ...” a choir of children’s voices fills the car.
“Jesus really is watching over us!” I exclaim.
“You switched on the radio,” she replies. “It’s Radio Maria.”
“Nice to have a bit of music, but is there anything a bit more ... stimulating?”
