“He sings about me in Latin. He writes about me in Greek. If you want to earn me, you have to do something.” And all of a sudden it knocks me to the floor. The culmination of her words and my flaws, and the weakness in my left ventricle, it’s hit me like a hard left-hook and I fall to the ground in front of her. She looks at me as if I’m mad, but I’m not female.
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“Girls, one day – if it hasn’t happened already, mind you – one day a man will tell you he loves you.
It will be a lie.
Especially if he’s Italian.”
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I wrote our history on a napkin and then I threw it at your face. It was one of those posh napkins, the reusable ones, not the disposable type. I guess that makes it better. You picked it up and read it and you laughed. Everything summed up in to four or five sentences - that’s the way you like it, and that’s the reason I hated you so much. I smiled and you grasped my knee under the table.
We speak quickly and honestly and simultaneously.
“I love you.”
“You wear me out.”
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