It had been days that I had been able to keep up the facade. I ignored the Italian’s calls and purposefully didn’t return them. I deleted his texts. I gathered his belongings and packed them into a bag.
“What are’a you’a doin’a? You’a been’a stupid’a girl’a now eh?!” he said ”answer your’a bloody’a phone’a!!”
After about a week, I took the cowards option again and text him to tell him to come to the flat and collect his things. Five minutes, in and out. Job done.
Having never dated a foreigner before, I was in for a shock.
He was persistent. He arrived, as usual, on time. I could tell he had made an extra effort with his appearance; nice shirt, his best jeans, aftershave.
“Now’a sit’a down’a ere’a an’ tell me’a what the hell’a you’a doin’” he said as he patted the sofa with his Mediterranean tanned, perfectly manicured yet masculine hand.
The “chat” began. He basically lectured me into understanding that if I had a problem with space, I should have told him. If I had a problem with him, I should have told him. If I had a problem being in a relationship, I should have told him. “How’a can’a we jump’a over buildings’a if’a we don’ta talk it?”.
Hurdles. You mean jump over hurdles. Talk about it, not talk it.
I listened. I argued. I explained. This was all going way too fast for me. Only a few months previous I had been free and single and actually loving it. I wasn’t ready for this. The staying over was one thing but staying over permanently was another.
To my surprise, the Italian was, as ever, accommodating. This laid back Mediterranean attitude was new to me. An Englishman would have long stormed out. The Italian, however, was strategically fighting his corner. I couldn’t help but be a tiny bit impressed.
“Guarda” (Look), he said. ”You’a like’a me, I’a think’a you’re a not’a that bad’a, you either’a go’a out’a with me’a, or’a you don’t a”. I couldn’t help, again, but be impressed with his candid frankness. “But’a I’a tell’a you this a’now, I’a not puttin’a up with this rabbish, you’a not’a twelve’a eh?!”.
That told me. He wasn’t finished.
“I’a think’a that we ‘av’a good thing ‘ere’a. Now, dont’a you’a look’a ’orse in Its’a mouth’a to count’a all Its’a teeth’a! Ok?!”.
Don’t look a horse in its mouth to count all it’s teeth?? After an enormous fit if giggles at how stupid he sounded I realised he was telling me that as we had a good thing, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept things as they were.
I did accept things and I stayed with him. I gave it a shot and with a bit more communication and a lot of patience, we both settled into our new circumstances.
It wasn’t before long that the very thing I had been running from happened.
The Italian moved in officially and that was that. I had committed to having his horse’s head on the pillow next to me forever more but promised never to look in his mouth to count his teeth!
- The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #1 (teaandbiscotti.com)
- First Impressions Don’t Count (teaandbiscotti.com)
- Dates Gone Bad: Meeting The Italian (teaandbiscotti.com)