Flirting in Italian by Lauren Henderson Page A

I love to dance, and have a pack of friends who all live in central London, near decent clubs, so we go out a lot. I’m relieved I didn’t wear high-heeled sandals tonight, though I thought about changing them when the idea of going out to the village came up; luckily, the ones I have on are strappy silver kitten heels, broken-in enough that I can walk miles in them and dance all night if I want to.
    But it’s exciting just to be out in the warm Italian night, the smooth, velvety air on our skin as we pile out of the Fiat in front of the village bar. It has a big garden in front, with a tall, wide canopy hung with white canvas over longtrestle tables, and a low wall on which lots of boys are sitting, checking out all the new arrivals. Fairy lights twinkle from the posts holding up the canopy, to the trellises along the far wall, and the bar beyond is brightly lit, neon strips in the ceiling bouncing light off the shiny tiled floor and the glass cases of cakes and ice cream.
    My heart is racing like a high-speed train. Everyone turns to look at us as we walk into the garden, all the boys on the wall swiveling theatrically, leaning over to stare at us, unashamedly goggling, low whistles following us like a vapor trail. Andrea and Leonardo are smug as peacocks as they shepherd us in, throwing comments over their shoulders at the boys who toss questions at them; I hear the words
“inglese”
and
“americane,”
whose meanings I know, but that’s all I understand. I feel suddenly very vulnerable, in a strange country, where the boys can say whatever they want about us and we won’t know what they mean. I’m really glad that I’m not alone, that Paige and Kendra are with me, strong, confident girls who don’t look like they’d be pushovers for the first boy who comes along.
    But wow. The
boys
. I couldn’t blame any girl for being a pushover in this country. Once we’re settled at an outdoor table, positioned in the center, under a big light
—like trophies Leonardo and Andrea are showing off
, I think in amusement—drinking strong bitter espresso from small china cups and eating fresh, sharp lemon sorbet that comes in real half-lemon shells, I can snatch glances around me at the display of sheer male Italian gorgeousness, taking it in with disbelief.
    Boys with short curly hair, boys with shaved heads, boys with long tousled hair. Boys with earrings, or silverchain necklaces, or big leather watchstraps hanging from their wrists. Boys in tight, bright T-shirts over snug ripped jeans or equally snug white trousers. All of them with tanned, smooth skin; lean, muscly arms; sexy, confident stances. None of them seem shy; none of them are remotely embarrassed about staring at us openly as they stroll past, or lounge against the walls, or cock their hips and lean on nearby tables.
    There are other girls here, of course; pretty, thin girls in miniskirts and lots of makeup. But they’re all a very similar type, and the girls at our table definitely are not. Paige is the only tall, fair-skinned blonde; Kendra the only girl darker than a Mediterranean tan. I’m less unusual, and I accept fairly humbly that I’m not the star attraction, though the way I’m dressed clearly marks me as “not from around here.”
    Elisa and Ilaria have come down to the village too. They’re standing at the bar, drinking Campari and playing with unlit cigarettes, deliberately ignoring our table. I sneer at them, but they’re talking to the burly bartender and don’t notice. Boys are whooping as they play table football over by the wall, bouncing the table, spinning their players, making extra noise to draw attention, trying to stand out, get the girls to notice them; there’s a palpable sense of excitement and possibility, of flirting and laughter. Guys keep coming up to our table, ostensibly greeting Leonardo and Andrea, but not even looking at them; they squeeze in on the benches, flashing big smiles at us, shaking our hands. It’s like