Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 89

           Still,theattentionwasnice…

           IthadbeensolongsinceI’dbeeninabar.EveninItalyIdidn’tgotobars,andIhadn’tbeenoutmuchduringtheDavidyears,either.IthinkthelasttimeI’dgonedancingwasbackwhenIwasmarried…backwhenIwashappilymarried,cometothinkofit.DearGod,ithadbeenages.OutonthedancefloorIranintomyfriendStefania,alivelyyoungItaliangirlI’dmetrecentlyinameditationclassinUbud,andwedancedtogether,hairflyingeverywhere,blondanddark,spinningmerrilyaround.Sometimeaftermidnight,thebandstoppedplayingandpeoplemingled.

           That’swhenImettheguynamedIan.Oh,Ireallylikedthisguy.RightawayIreallylikedhim.Hewasverygood-looking,inakindofSting-meets-Ralph-Fiennes’s-younger-brothersortofway.HewasWelsh,sohehadthatlovelyvoice.Hewasarticulate,smart,askedquestions,spoketomyfriendStefaniainthesamebabyItalianthatIspeak.Itturnedoutthathewasthedrummerinthisreggaeband,thatheplayedbongos.SoImadeajokethathewasa"bonga-leer,"likethoseguysinVenice,butwithpercussioninsteadofboats,andsomehowwehititoff,startedlaughingandtalking.

           Felipecameoverthen-thatwastheBrazilian’sname,Felipe.HeinvitedusalltogoouttothisfunkylocalrestaurantownedbyEuropeanexpatriates,awildlypermissiveplacethatnevercloses,hepromised,wherebeerandbullshitareservedatallhours.IfoundmyselflookingtoIan(didhewanttogo?)andwhenhesaidyes,Isaidyes,also.

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