“I had to sit beside him on the plane ride here, ya know,” she continues, moving her mouth above the glass, trying to find the straw. It’s almost embarrassing enough that I want to walk over and guide the straw to her lips so she can stop looking like a brand-new puppy in search of a tit.
“Can I help you?”
My eyes shift up from her glass to realize her slurred question is directed at me. I look all around and confirm. Yep. She’s talking to me.
“I’m sorry?” I’m unsure of how to respond to the newly single, albeit very hot, drunk woman.
“You’re staring. My personal life isn’t a means of entertainment for anyone other than Johnny.” She points to the bartender, who is now looking down at his nametag that clearly reads Jacopo, but I feel like correcting the drunk woman would be a death sentence, and I would hate to miss one of the biggest moments in my hockey career because my mouth got me in trouble.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, this time without the question mark. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The bartender, Jacopo-Johnny, is now watching the interaction between the two of us as he pulls a glass of water from behind the bar. Or maybe he is also having a glass of straight vodka. Maybe it’s acceptable in this country, or in this quality of hotel.
Drunk Woman sighs, finding the straw on the first try this time, and takes another sip from her drink.
“You didn’t offend me.” Her tone softens. She crosses her legging-covered legs and adjusts her oversized sweater to cover her shoulder, even though I believe the purpose of those shirts is in fact to show skin.
I’ve always found those wildly attractive and catch myself staring at the creamy skin peeking back at me.
I take a sip of my mocktail and wave to the bartender. He goes to get me a refill, but I stop him. “Can you make that a raspberry vodka and club soda?”
He gives me a look that asks why I want alcohol after a mocktail, but I just shrug.. A good raspberry vodka and club soda cocktail is always light and refreshing — something I definitely need to keep myself from feeling bloated.
“I dumped my boyfriend,” she informs me, and I notice she’s moved two seats closer to me, leaving only one barstool to separate us.
Keeping my lips clamped so I don’t mention that I heard her story when she whisper-yelled it to the bartender, I shrug, and she takes that as an invitation to keep talking.
Is this what being more approachable is like? Why did I want this?
I listen as she starts her story over, telling me how she got home from work early and found her boyfriend rolling around with her cousin. How she had to tell her best friend not to burn her favoriteLittle Mermaidpillow. And how she had to endure eight hours of him trying to switch seats with people on their flight to Milan.
“Personally, I’d have let him.” I take a sip of my drink and feel it slither down my throat. The raspberry vodka in this country is the best I’ve ever had in my entire life. Whether it’s because I’m drinking it in Milan or the superiorcraftsmanship, I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling it’s because they genuinely make it better here.
“You’d have let him what?” she slurs, her blinking getting slower and slower with every passing minute.
“Switch seats.” I toy with my straw, enjoying the clink of the ice against the glass. “It sounds like you didn’t want to sit beside him anyway. Why make a flight to Milan unbearable?”
She’s just staring at me now, so I down my drink and wave to the bartender for a refill. When I turn my eyes back to Drunk Woman, her head is slowly lowering onto the counter with her phone in her hand.
Jacopo-Johnny is reaching for a glass and looking at me like she’s my problem. I want to laugh in his face. What the hell would I do with her? I don’t know anything about this woman except the fact that she’s having a pretty shitty vacation.
Is she on vacation? With her ex? Or was it a honeymoon that she forced him to go on because she didn’t want to miss the experience of the city?
Probably not a honeymoon since she never referred to the cheating asshole as her fiancé. But still, going on vacation with your ex-boyfriend just because you didn’t want to miss out on Milan? I’d have asked someone else to go along with me for sure.
Maybe he wouldn’t give up his ticket.
Either way, I don’t know her name and keep referring to her as Drunk Woman, so I suppose getting answers to all of my “why are you in Milan?” questions isn’t an option.
“Miss,” Jacopo-Johnny says, trying to wake her up with a nudge on her exposed shoulder. “Ma’am.”
She doesn’t show any sign of consciousness, so I stare at him, waiting for his nextplan of action.
“Check her phone,” Jacopo-Johnny suggests, still not refilling my glass, like he’s holding it hostage until I fix the problem that isn’t mine. “Maybe there’s someone in there you can call.”
His words are fast and rhythmic with a heavy Milanese accent. His consonants are sharp and clear, where his vowels aren’t emphasized. Almost the opposite of the Italian accents I’ve heard. I can speak the language, thanks to my aunt, who got bored and decided to learn it on a mobile app one day. But I’m lacking the sexy accent, and to me, that’s the important part.
I love hearing people talk who aren’t from the States. It’s like listening to a hypnosis tape.I will take you to my room and make you scream my name as long as you don’t stop talking in that accent.
