Your SEO optimized title


Posted on November 26, 2012 by Flan

“What happened yesterday? I tried to call you but your phone was switched off all day.” You are lying on a massage bed, Miele is above you. She has decided she is going to take care of your face, she is massaging it, putting lotions, pulling out impurities, the whole deal. Her face looks upside down, eyelids for eye bottoms, the chin replacing the forehead. It reminds you of those afternoons from your teenage years, talking about boys while looking at each other upside down to catch a glimpse of monstrosity in your closest friend’s face. “I am not good at restraining myself, so I turned off the phone altogether. You see, we are already at the what-are-you-eating-for-lunch stage and we’ve spent only one night together. I need to take the right perspective. Because the real problem is that I am actually enjoying this, the sharing of pictures at the bus stop while you are waiting for the bus, of tomatoes at the supermarket, of the cappuccino you are having in the bar in the morning”.

Miele sighs, “Yeah, that sounds exciting. That is not a lover, it’s a penpal using new technology.” You stretch your toes, emerging from the white towel: “Exactly. There is very little sex in it, maybe once in a while a far allusion, to my breasts, my smell, my skin flavour. And it isn’t done in a sensual way either, his texts have the articulation and the poetic level of a shopping list.” “So just end it.” Miele can be so incredibly tactless, practical and straightforward sometime that you wish she had a penis so that you could marry her instantly. “I might be falling in love again”. “You are an incurable romantic. Still waiting for Prince Charming”. But it is not like that. Often enough, you are the saviour, you can be Princess Charming: you save men from long periods of sexual impasses. Apparently your talent is to reawaken sexual desire in those who have – for one reason or another – gone into sexual hibernation. It happened again on Friday night. You have just realized that your favorite bus, 117, is running until very late. You move through the crowded streets of Monti, stumbling a bit, not only are you tipsy but you are wearing high shoes as well. You start talking to this guy while you are heading to the bus stop, he is from Boston, he is a bartender. He quickly goes into a bar and gets two rums to take away. He gets on the bus with you. You are sitting on the bus and the only thing you want is to sip your rum in silence, lulled by the rocking motion of the tiny electric bus. But he wants to talk. He starts telling you that he is heartbroken, has been cheated and left, haven’t been with a woman for seven months. Is it a cry for help? You wonder. You cannot deny help to a stranger. You take him home with you. “I could’t do it. I was naked in bed with this guy and I had streams of tears coming out of my eyes. He called a taxi and thanked me, saying that I had restored his good faith in women. Ah, the poor sod. Saying no to a 26-year-old-American bartender. I must be utterly crazy.” “Why? Was he very hot?” “Not a bit.” “Ah, well, then. It makes sense.” “Not what I did afterward. I sent drunken love texts to my far away virtual lover.” “Oh, no! You are back to rule number one.” “I know.” You get up to look at yourself in the mirror but you are immediately captivated by Miele’s presence behind you, her dark hair, and white skin. She looks like Snow White. But Miele is not a princess, she is the Queen, she has her reign, with no King, no hunter, just herself, owner of the beauty shop, and the three women working for her. You get the moral of the story. You too need to build a reign of your own someday. In the meantime, you are happy enough with being the craziest Drama Queen in town.