“Yeah,” he answered.
“One fifty.”
He pulled out a five euro bill and laid it on the bar.
I took it and opened the cash register –
“Keep the change,” he said.
“An American,” I replied with a hint of humor in my voice.
He frowned. “What? No, I’m from – ”
“It’s a joke,” I said as I pocketed the change in my apron. “Only Americans tip that much.”
“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Well, I’m Tuscan, through-and-through.”
“That’s nice,” I said as I moved off to do some busywork behind the counter so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
He was disarmingly handsome. I didn’t like that. It made me forget he wasmafia.
Like when I made the joke about him being an American. For a second, I’d forgotten what hereallywas.
He sipped the espresso.
“Mmmm – that’s great,” he complimented me, lifting the cup in a tiny salute.
I didn’t say anything. I just made a face like,Good.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Why?” I asked, a little bit sharply.
“Your hair,” he said, pointing to his own head. “Around here, I don’t see many blondes unless it comes out of a bottle.”
“Well, mine came with my head,” I said as I re-stacked cups. I needed something to do to keep my eyes off him.
He laughed.
I didn’t.
“You from the north?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, still not looking at him.
“Milan?”
I still didn’t look at him. “Yes. Milan.”
“It’s a beautiful city.”
“It’s nice,” I said noncommittally.
“What made you leave?”
“Looking for a change.”
“Welcome to Florence, then,” he said. He put down the cup and stuck out his hand over the bar. “My name’s Giorgio.”
