His words come at me rapidly. I only understand half of them — if it is a lucky day. He likes me. He wants to get coffee together. I am a beautiful. He wants to give me a belt.
This is what I love about “my boots guy.” Guiseppe continues to speak itlaian to me even though I’m sure he knows that I don’t really comprehend. The thrust gets through — certainly the bevy of baci do — but much of the meaning is lost.
I confess that after 9 months living in Italy, I am still very much an english speaker.
