LatinosUSA

A work friend introduced me to Carlotta at an office gathering. “She’s Calabrian, toils in our Rome office, and is reportedly a pain in the arse to work with.”

Still, when in Melbourne …

She was tall and had brown eyes with flecks of green, her eyelashes and eyebrows black. Her black/blue hair cascaded below her shoulder blades. Her golden skin seemed to shine, and her smile beguiled me. She was an animated conversationalist, and I was captured by her vivacity. I asked if we could relocate to a suitable venue where I could buy her a drink, and she wanted to know if I was a Breetish gentleman. What to say? If I said no, the answer she obviously required, I would like to think I was lying. If I said yes, she would be gone.

“I’ve never been accused of that,” I said.

She took hold of the broad end of my tie and smiled coquettishly. “Good answer, Breetish,” she said. “The date starts now. Buy me a drink.”

“What kind of drink?”

“Surprise me.”

I ordered champagne.

We were in bed two hours later, and her passions soared. She tore my clothes, bit me, and lacerated my skin, and fool that I was, I thought I was having a good time.

The shirt she’d torn cost a hundred-and-forty dollars, and when I mentioned it, she said, “E allora, I knew you were Breetish!”

She quelled somewhat afterwards and made coffee. “Will we do this again?” she sweetly asked.

“I’d like to, yeah.”

“Like to? I think if ‘like’ is the word you use, we shouldn’t bother.”

“It’s my British reserve. I very much want to.”

“No Breetish allowed! No gentlemen. No reservists. Kapishe!”

“Kapiche.” I said with a smile.

The more we got to know each other, disagreements surfaced. Carlotta’s eyes flashed and sometimes teared. She was passionately vociferous in stating Manchester Ceety could not be good enough to play in the Italian league. Pffffft, was a noise she made. People who didn’t drool in appreciation of southern Italian food were fools who lacked taste. Sometimes she used a Ha! She clicked her thumbnail on her perfect teeth, and her fiery eyes widened challengingly. My putting work before pleasure was proof of my Breetishness. Newspapers were not black ink on white paper. My clothes showed a lack of style. I was a pain in la parte posteriore. She was right and I was wrong in anything and everything that mattered. Crockery flew.

After a particularly vehement rage over a slight I cannot recall, Carlotta took refuge in the bedroom. After a while, guilt made me go to apologise for something I wasn’t sure of, and I found her, in my closet, shredding a couple of my suit jackets. When I demanded she stop the assault on my clothes she turned and faced me, brandishing the scissors. I raised my eyebrows, and she calmed and said she was sorry, but I should know what she was like.

“Yes,” I said, “I do know what you’re like. You’re wonderful and beautful, and far too volatile.”

She dropped the scissors, brushed past me, and walked out.

I sometimes thought about looking her up to see if derangement had been rebalanced, but my Breetishness always won out.