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  • He said, "I'll take care of you."

    He said, "You like that parpadelle, don't you?"

    I said, "You remembered."

    He smiled. He was pretty cute. He'd done some things. You could tell.

    "Let me see," he said, only slightly coyly. "The parpadelle, with the porcini mushrooms, right? I know what you like. Don't you worry, I will take good care of you."

    "You remembered," I said and this time I was laughing.

    "You like the Chianti," he said.

    "I do," I said, "But you know, the last time you----."

    "I could bring you a Montepulciano."

    "I'd like that."

    "Would you like to try it first?"

    "Sure."

    "I'm supposed to be inside tonight."

    "I see."

    "But I'll stay with you."

    "I know you will."

    "Would you like some fresh porcini on that?"

    I was laughing. Pretty cute. Guys in suits, girls in short skirts, guys in tattoo sleeves were stopping to slap him on the shoulder, look up to him.

    I said, "Sure. I'm hungry." I might have said, "Sure, honey." I was speaking English but I was feeling that warm clime Spanish-personality diction smooth me.

    "I can see," he said.

    He brought me the Monte, I sipped. It was just right.

    Then, off and on, he watched me eat.

    A woman alone, travelling for work, needs a waiter who remembers.

    After all, a writer is always looking for a man who can bring her a late arrival in the city post midnight proper large plate and wine, a man who, given certain moments of pleasure, will keep his kitchen open late.

    A man who knows, but never says, that he also gives the gift of good dialogue.

    To a woman who knows, but never says, that she also knows some waiters wait for the right line for their own book.


    (Photo by Susan, 2012)
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