Dear John...

Yesterday I was at the supermarket. I hate going there on a Saturday morning, because that's when all the Italian wives drag their families to buy enough groceries to last for the next five centuries. Yet after having bought food for the next five centuries, the same wives return to the supermarket on the following Saturday. Go figure.

Anyways, I was at the electronics department, when I spied with my little eye this dude that was kinda checking me out. At first I thought "oh cool", but then I noticed that it was Alfredo, the gas-man. And I ran. Well, more like escaped to the milk and butter department.

Let me tell you about Alfredo, the gas-man.

When I came to Italy, I had no heating in my apartment, and it was December. For the first night I slept with my coat and woolly hat on. So naturally the very first thing to do Monday morning was to call the gas-man. I remember that I didn't speak Italian very well, but somehow I had to explain to this blond husky handyman what to do. I guess I managed to be somewhat convincing considering that before him leaving we had the following discussion:

A- so are you here with your husband?
E- no
A- with your husband to be?
E - no
A - boyfriend?
E- nope
A - you a lesbian?
E - no
A - ah, ok. You wanna go out on a date this friday?
E - ok

I personally couldn't believe it had been so easy. My mom had always told me that if I wanted something I had to go out there and get it, but here in Italy that wasn't necessary, things just happen to you at the comfort of your own home. Nice eh? He wasn't too bad either, he had a job, lived on his own and he vaguely looked like Jude Law. In the office the girls were jealous of my good luck.

So on Friday we went out. He took me to this place up on the hills. A nice place, even though the trip was a bit long and the road was dark, and I had 911 dialed on my cell phone just in case he was taking me to the woods in order to ravage me. In the end the date went well, and so we decided to meet up the following week as well.

He had sent me an sms asking me if I wanted to go dancing. I don't dance, so I said that I didn't care  much for discos, that for me they were just places to drink inside instead of drinking outside.  He wanted to go anyway, so off we went. It was the corniest place I've ever seen, and you couldn't talk because of the loud music so I moved on to the drinking part. He was driving so he couldn't drink anything, instead he tried to convince me to dance by moving his hips on the dance floor like a monkey with arthritis. The best part of the whole night was when I realized that the song "What is love? (baby don't hurt me)" wasn't coming from a CD, but that I was listening to a live performance of the very same evergreen from the  90's. Yes, it was Haddaway, performing live at the disco. I sincerely hoped that was his farewell gig.

He drove me home, and stopped the car in front of my house. I said goodnight thinking that I probably didn't want to see him again, no matter how much he looked vaguely like Jude Law. And then he said the most ridiculous thing any guy can say to a girl : "can I come up? I just want to sleep next to you". I almost couldn't hold in the laughter. I might be a foreigner, but I'm not stupid, and some things work the same way no matter where in the world you are. And the fact is, no guy comes to your house just to sleep. I once said to a guy who kept on insisting " ok you can come to my house, but just to sleep and that's it" , and when we got to my house and I actually put on my jammies and went to sleep, he was all sad like someone had stolen his lollipop. That was the first and last time I ever had a guy over for a nap.

So, for me that was the last straw. I told Alfredo that no he couldn't come up to sleep next to me. We said we'd be in touch. A couple of days later he sent me a message asking me to go out again, and I gave him the dear john speech... It's not you it's me, I miss home, this is not a good time for me, I have to wash my hair. And that's it, Alfredo was out of the picture.

We don't frequent the same places (= I don't go dancing to corny discos with grannies shaking their booties in skimpy mudflaps for clothing), so I never accidentally pump into him, until now. And my reaction was to run.

I' not sure why. It's not like he was a terrible person or something, but something told me not to go talk to him. Maybe I felt ashamed for the fact that I hadn't been honest with him. After all I could've told him that I just wasn't interested in him and that's it, instead of giving him a bunch of excuses. Or maybe I was afraid he'd try to ask me out again, seeing that 3 years had passed. Surely I was feeling better now, right? The home sickness had surely passed by now? In any case, I ran.

After my heartbeat  had slowed down, I got to thinking. Apart from the general outlines of the whole ordeal, I don't remember any details about him. I can't remember his last name, where he lived, or what his face was like. What did his voice sound like? How did he dress? What was his car like? I have no idea. So maybe I wasn't telling lies to him anyway. I had just arrived at a new country, I was learning a new language, meeting tons of new people and trying to survive in general. There was no room in my brain for him. No room for Alfredo the gas-man.

I immediately forgave myself for having ran away, and went on to finish my shopping.