Hey, I couldn't help overhear...

I was sitting outside Giorgio’s Vineria in Campo de’ Fiori enjoying a pre-lunch glass of excellent red wine when two girls sat down at the vacant table beside mine. They were so taken by what they had to say, they made no attempt to keep their voices down. They didn’t care. The following is the gist of their conversation:

“He’s a shit.”
“Why?”
“Aren’t all men?”
This was followed by a moment of reflective silence.
“So what happened?”
“We went to dinner.”
“What were you wearing?”
“Black top and trousers, bare midriff, visible tattoo… My stomach was swollen.”
“Period?”
“I felt like shit, not in the mood to dress up. And my skin…”
“Where did you go?”
“A dump. The cheapskate. I don’t know what I see in him, and he dresses so badly.”
“Did you go to his place?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to. I thought I should string him along more, play hard to get….”
“Who made the first move? You or him?”
“He started telling me his life story. Booooring!"

"Booooring!" The other girl echoed.

"And I’m thinking when is he going to kiss me? No, don’t get me wrong. Nice guy… Started to get late. Anyway, one thing led to another….”
“Where?”
“On the sofa. Comfortable three-seater; could stretch out nicely.”
“Where did you say he lived?”
“In the centre. Nice place, small, but neat.”
“Generous?” In other words: was the boyfriend well hung?

“No more, no less than any other guy.”
“Did you fake it?”
“No more than usual.”
“Position.”
“Missionary. Booooring!”
“Booooring!” Another echo. “Did you act stupid?”
“Yeah, but he pulled out in time.”
“Fuck! You’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days. Why don’t you carry a condom in your bag?”
“Keep meaning to.”
“Did you stay the night?”
“No, I couldn’t wait to get out, to go home.”
“Has he called you back?”
“No!”
“What a prick?”

✫ ✫ ✫ ✫ ✫