Free 50 Reasons to Say Goodbye by Nick Alexander Page B

tells me.
    We eat at our separate tables. It seems rude after such a gallant gesture but I can’t find the courage to invite him to move.
    He goes to the toilet and I see the real enormity of him – my height but a body builder, ninety kilos at least, and no fat, absurdly huge. His arms must be the width of my legs. He has the best bubble-butt I have ever seen. The flaps on his rear pockets jut out horizontally.
    I finish my salad and as he returns he leans on the chair opposite me. “Je peux?” he asks. His accent in French is thick, pure Italian.
    The gesture is so up-front yet so polite, I laugh. “Sure.” I nod.
    As he sits I see a bulge in the front of his military trousers.
    â€œThanks for the drink,” I say.
    I feel a stirring between my own legs. I cross them.
    He smiles at me, holds out a hand. “Fabrizio,” he says.
    â€œMark.”
    He’s so big he blocks any view I might have of anything. It’s not so bad, except that I feel so tiny; I sit up straighter.
    I try to think of something to say. “Are you here on holiday?” It’s banal but I say it anyway.
    He shrugs, he grins.
    I try in French,
“Vous êtes ici en vacances?”
He shrugs again.
    I order a beer for my new friend. He says something long, something complicated to me in Italian.
    I shrug; I smile. “Sorry?” I say.
    He sips his beer and thinks for a while.
    â€œYou like me,” he says hesitantly.
    I grin; I nod. “I don’t really know you, but, sure, you seem very nice,” I say.
    He smiles, he shrugs. I ask if he prefers English or French. “Italiano,” he says.
    I smile; I shrug.
    â€œSo, you like me,” he says again earnestly.
    â€œJees, how do you say cute in Italian?”
I wonder. “Molto, cuto … erh, mignono?” I say.
    He shrugs; frowns, and I give up on any hope of subtlety. “Yes,” I say.
    He asks something else in Italian. He winks at me, it is an earnest question and he seems embarrassed to ask it. I hear something like
amora
. I guess it means love. I compute the possibilities;
I love it here don’t you? I want to make love to you?
    The sax player holds a hat in front of me and I put ten francs in it. He winks at me, shoots me a cheeky grin, and moves on. I subconsciously notice that he really
is
cute.
    â€œSex,” says Fabrizio leaning in. He nods and arches his eyebrows, points at himself, then at me then away to his left.
    I feel myself blush. Without being able to make a joke of it I don’t know how to respond so I shrug. Fabrizio looks sad.
    I think,
“I may never, ever, have another chance to sleep with someone who looks like this.”
I nod. “Si,” I say.
    Fabrizio grins, then stops, rolls his eyes and opens his hands to the sky. He actually says, “Mamma Mia!”
    A woman is pushing through the tables towards us – long, ironed, jet-black hair. She’s wearing a semitransparent grey cotton dress. It is very lacy, very short.
    Fabrizio grins at her, so I smile too. Her legs are encased in thigh-high leather boots. Thick makeup and heavy gold jewellery top off the outfit. Fabrizio stands, turns to greet her, kissing her on the lips, placing, I note, one hand on her buttocks.
    He introduces me. “Rosa, Mark.”
    Wide-eyed, I shake her hand. As we shake she licks her lips and very slowly, quite deliberately, she winks at me. A waft of cheap perfume whacks me in the face.
    I look back at Fabrizio questioningly; I am confused.
    He too winks at me, grins and raises his eyebrows silently forming a question. I look between their grinning faces.
    I shake my head from side to side, silently forming the answer.
    As I walk away I remember the cute sax player, but he’s long gone.

Words Fail
    The disco spotlights roll across an empty dance floor.
    I grimace. “Yves!” I say. “It’s completely empty!”
    He grabs my arm, steers me to the bar. “I