Carlo walked into the club, wearing his best American attire. Three piece, gray, pinstripe suit, white shirt, black leather shoes, black socks, black leather belt, black silk tie, white gold cufflinks, and a white gold watch with a matching band.
His attire stood out like that of a black American Cadillac SUV in an ocean of Italian micro cars and scooter. Our world was tie dyed, his was black and white.
Concetta took one look at him, smiled at me as she shook her head, placed her elbows on the bar, and said, “You were right. He needs my help.” She studied Carlo for a time. “Poor boy.” She ran her fingers through her long, fiery red hair, making sure to drape some over her shoulder. “He has forgotten what it means to be Italian!”
I laughed. “And you are the pulcino caldo to remind him, eh?”
She swayed her hips, pressed her fingers to her lips, then pressed them to a hip as she said, “Shhhhhhh,” then showed me the most playful grin, “Naturalmente!” And off she went.
I watched her sashay over to Carlo’s table, wondering how long it would take for Concetta to restore his Italian soul to life. Five minutes? Ten? How long could Carlo resist her color, her flair, her sultry, smoky ways.
I watched, and listened.
Concetta made sure Carlo saw her hips sway as she walked to his table. Her skin-tight, too short, bright yellow skirt stayed glued to her hips, making every movement more noticeable. She propped her elbows on his table, leaning her shoulders forward, so her matching yellow vest opened a touch, providing Carlo with a view of acres of her chest.
Carlo almost crushed his glass. He quickly placed his drink back on the table, and tried not to stare at her. Especially at her chest, as it hung, just above the table. “Concetta. How are you tonight?”
“I’m thirsty, amico.” She gently grabbed his hand, letting her fingers drag across its back, before they interlaced with his. “Care to buy me a drink?”
“What would you like?”
“Something… Italian…” She rested an elbow on the table, and her chin on her hand, revealing even more of her skin. “Something… With soul…”
Carlo tried to walk calmly to the bar. He failed. He leaned over the bar, and hissed at me, “Angelo! Help! She wants something Italian! With soul!”
I nodded, and fixed two Sgroppinos, one for each of them. “These,” I whispered knowingly, “Are one of her favorites.”
And off he went, like a little boy, about to lose his virginity. It would not take long at all for Concetta to awaken Carlo’s Italian soul.
They had their drinks, then Concetta took his hand once more, “Dance with me, amico!” And she danced him out to the floor, where she opened his suit coat, loosened his tie, and handed him his cufflinks in the first three minutes. He melted into her on the floor, running his fingers through her hair. Crushing her chest to his. His hips locked into the same swaying motion as hers.
She spent the evening melting his American image into a puddle at her feet. Leaving his Italian heart and soul revealed for all to see.