Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

A Perfect Idiot

apparently, weren’t theirs but invented on the spot, what he said wasn’t that clear because he couldn’t speak Ital ian, he only spoke Paduan, it seemed as though he were screaming at sheep to get them to stop. Next to him was a girl who could have been his daughter but who, instead, maintained a certain professional ism and detachment l ike that of a waitress. In the l ittle town centers, you never know whether the person serving you is a waitress or the proprietor ’s daughter functioning as a waitress, and I wondered about it because Don Vito, who was aware of everything happening around him, caught me a few times looking down the girl ’s cleavage. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide the scarcity in that area of my l ife, ever since I’d divorced (as the days went by, my escape from the conjugal home acquired more legal trappings), I didn’t know how to admit, and even less to a priest, that I wasn’t making love even in my dreams. I was too busy forgetting I was married to dedicate al l of myself to another woman. It had been a final episode, the one in the car with the dumbfounded Mel i and her empty Coca-Cola cans. Standing before a wal l ful l of books, I felt so at ease that I saw my memories again as though on a screen, I even succeeded in giving them meaning and, whi le I reordered them, I became convinced of the fol lowing: the priest, too, had learned dignity thanks to his work as a l ibrarian. It was l ike this:

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