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5. Polka Dots and Moonbeams
GABRIEL BIONDI WAVES TO ME from our booth in Pastis, where we have a standing breakfast date once a month, because if we didn’t keep to this schedule, we’d never see one another. Gabriel works nights at the Carlyle, and I work days in the shop, and rarely do the two schedules intersect. We chose Pastis because it’s the closest thing to a French bistro we can get in Greenwich Village. And while we live in New York City happily, once in a while we like to pretend we’re in Paris.
The antique mirrors, black-and-white-checked tile floors, and polished oak tables give the restaurant the down-home feeling of a warm, expansive kitchen. I weave through the chatty crowd. A couple of tables are packed with men in suits, but the rest are neighborhood locals who come regularly for the best eggs, bacon, and brioche in the Village.
Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek, his jet black hair tucked under a beret. He wears a fitted black cashmere sweater over jeans so tight they show off every hour he spends in advanced spin class at the gym. Gabriel has turned his shape into an upside-down triangle: wide at the shoulders and slim at the hips. “I got the poached eggs for me, and I ordered the French toast for you.”
“Of course you did. That’s why you have no ass and I do.”
“I have an ass. It’s just pert and shapely. Like a new peach, I like to say. Or I’ve been told.” He helps me off with my coat. “I want to know everything.”
I peel off the rest of my winter layers and pile them next to Gabriel in the booth. “You first. How are you? How’s work?”
“They cut my hours. Not good. But I have time to think about my life. Excellent. And I have time to focus on my friends. Even better. Where’s the letter?”
I open my purse. I store Gianluca’s letter carefully in a second envelope, preserving it like a butterfly saved in a ziplock bag for fifth-grade science class. The onionskin stationery is as delicate as wings, and I don’t want anything to smudge the ink or tear the paper. After all, this is a document of intention, and I’d like to honor any coming my way. “Be careful.”
“Relax. A love letter from Gianluca Vechiarelli is hardly on par with an original Shakespeare manuscript.”
“Yeah, well, Shakespeare never sent me a so
Gabriel unfolds the letter carefully and reads aloud.
“‘Cara Valentina.’ That’s a sexy start. ‘ Please accept my apologies for tonight at the I
“Do you think?”
“I know. Look, a man doesn’t show up at a hotel full of family, especially your brood, and find the exact room you’re staying in and almost seduce you unless he’s cuh-ray-zee about you. Tommy Ta
“I don’t want to fall for him.” The truth is, I don’t have time for any man right now. I’ve got a business to run and a new one to build. The last thing I need is a distraction. “I can’t fall for him.”
“Too late for that, sister.”
“I live in New York, he lives in Italy,” I say.
“There are airplanes.”
“Come on, Gabriel. It’s an impossible situation.”
“That’s why you carry the letter around like a Dead Sea scroll. It’s so impossible that you have to reread his letter over and over again to remind yourself why you can’t possibly fall in love with him. Face it, you already like/love him, and you like/love thinking about him.”
“I don’t want to like/love. I want to be the kind of person who just has fun and doesn’t get all wrapped up in it.”
“You mean the opposite of what you had with Roman.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Well, that was different. Roman works in a kitchen, and people are always hungry. You really couldn’t compete with that. It’s primal. Gianluca, on the other hand, is a ta
“Not right now.”
“So enjoy the attentions of an older man. And read the letters. Handwritten letters are a sex life in and of themselves.”
Gabriel is right. I read the letter right before I go to sleep and imagine what Gianluca is doing. I hear the inflection of his voice when I read, and I feel his intent. Then I think about him, and how we happened to get to this place. I remember every detail of my visit to Arezzo when we first met, how he was gruff and didn’t seem to like me at all. And then, how he made excuses to be with me during my visit, how attentive he was, and how he would make plans, pick me up, drop me off, check to see if I needed anything. And then when he came to Capri, I was swimming, and he suddenly appeared by the pool, a welcome surprise. I was brokenhearted and pining for Roman, but that did not deter him. He’s trying to build something with me. Why can’t I at least let him try?
Gabriel continues, “Just enjoy the man. Why does everything have to be an emotional circus? Keep it simple. If you can. If you want to.”
“Okay, Doctor Love. I get it. So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.
“No. And it’s brutal out there. The competition is beyond fierce. Look at me. No one in his right mind would dare kick sand in my face on Far Rockaway beach, but have you noticed? Every guy that checks the ‘Yes, I’m gay’ box these days is in perfect physical condition. Our BMIs are probably close to our shoe sizes-and that’s a national average. Every single homosexual man in America is buff. When did this happen? And why? Now, all of a sudden, if you’re gay, you have to attract a mate with your personality. You have to be charming to find a boyfriend. Well read. Fascinating. The bod isn’t enough.”
“You’ve got a problem, then.”
“I know. It’s back to the New York Public Library for me. I might wind up having to read David Foster Wallace’s oeuvre just to be in the loop. By the way, I’m out of my apartment May first,” he says.
“What happened?”
“Well, I was never officially on the lease. It’s a sublet-you know my cousin Joey. It’s his place, and now that the rents have plummeted, everybody wants to move back into the city, including Joey. And since they’ve cut my hours at the Carlyle, I have to make some cuts of my own. I’d like to pay less rent, so this is a good time to move. Chelsea Boy may become Hoboken Hottie.”
“You can’t leave the city! All the glamour would go-sucked right off of the streets and into the Holland Tu
“Ain’t that the truth? But I have to stay open. Realistic is the new black. From now on, it’s beauty on a budget. And that might even mean the other B word: Brooklyn. I know, I know. Italian Americans spent a generation trying to move out of Brooklyn, and now we’re moving back in. It’s insane.”