“A beautiful woman should never have to eat alone,” purred the Italian man, his long fingers spread out against the surface of my table so close they nearly singed my skin. He paused here for a moment, his eyes lasers burning right through me. 

My breath quickened; I might be melting under this stare.  

Finally he took a long breath in, patted my table twice and departed for a more divine locale. With his bronzed skin and black-fire eyes, he could have Mercury.

At least, this is what I imagine he said to me. He could have said, “This table is reserved,” or, “That book sucks, you should not be reading it.” There’s no way to be sure; I don’t speak Italian.

“American?” asked a harsh voice attached to a squirrely man whose head leaned in too close to me. He was eying the cover of my book.

“Uh, yes.”

“Me, too,” he needlessly informed, scraping a chair across the stone walkway and seating himself at my table, “Are you waiting for someone?”

I had the look of someone who wasn’t. “No.”

To continue reading this story, please jump over to its home on the Hobo Pancakes site. Be sure to check out some of the other great stories while you're there, too!

http://www.hobopancakes.com/2011/08/07/the-palate-cleanser-4/