At 6:15 p.m. the narrow cobblestone streets are choked with people moving at a snail’s pace. I clutch my empty shopping bag and try to calculate how long it will take to reach the grocery store, purchase the necessary ingredients for the pasta dinner I had planned, and make it back home through the crowd. I crane my neck around the cluster of dark-haired Italian men in front of me, wondering why the streets are suddenly so crowded after being empty for hours.
Jenna Davis
The barista stared at me expectantly through his thick, black-rimmed glasses, waiting for my order. I felt the familiar flutter of butterflies in my stomach. My palms began to perspire. I gave a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one else was within earshot. Then in a meek voice, I told him my order, knowing full well that one mispronounced syllable would be the difference between a low-fat latte and something you might hear in a porno film.
The toothpick slides into the snail shell easily enough, but when I try and pull out the fleshy innards, I am met with resistance. Finally, with a grimace and a suction noise, the pale blob comes free, and I pop it into my mouth before I can change my mind.
My table applauds as I take a gulp of Hite to wash the whole thing down. I keep the chewing to a minimum, taking the easy way out.
