Secrets of Sicily

In his voice I heard the secrets of Sicily, and I felt everything that is fiery and Old Country in me rise to the challenge he offered: Street smart kid vs. college educated girl. Financier vs. writer.  Man vs. woman.

We debated who makes the best coffee in the city, spoke fondly of the Melrose Diner, and I admitted to never watching The Godfather.

He threatened no relations for six months for some smart comment that I made, and speaking as a good Catholic girl, I told him that sounded ideal to me. He countered with the factoid he was an altar boy in his youth, trying to quickly gain some brownie points. He said we wouldn't last three dates yet alone six months. Just proves that he miscalculated my stubborness and my fear of getting hurt.

He told me that women offer to sleep with him on first dates--I'm not most women.

He promised to buy me a cannoli with extra powedered sugar, but the cannoli comes with a catch. I'd be grilling him salmon with extra lemon pepper for dinner. He'd be eating the cannoli from my body for dessert.

I imagine he likes black satin sheets. It's just a gut instinct that I have.

He spoke to me in Italian. I didn't understand a lick.

He likes my laugh, commenting that it's the sexiest one he's ever heard. It very well may be the sexiest one he's ever heard; I hear that from quite a few men. "Where do you get that from? How do you make it sound like that?"  he asked.  My laugh is not affected. It just is.

I'm sexy, whether or not I believe it. I can distract a man--married or single--with my laugh and curves.

He knows a lot of women, and a lot of influential people in the city.

He doesn't know me.