The Essence of Cool

The Essence of Cool

Many years ago, when I was living in Italy, I had a terrible and longstanding crush on a beautiful man from Rome named Fulvio. Fulvio is tall and lean, he has wavy light brown hair, a long nose, and attentive eyes, and he wears glasses. He doesn’t look like a Don Giovanni, but he has his charm, and I was a sucker for it.
A friend of mine told me recently that I embody the essence of cool. I admit that living in Italy for the better part of a decade did probably improve my fashion sense. For one thing, I no longer consider a big, bulky sweatshirt and jeans to be the height of my sexy approachability. Be that as it may, I contested my friend’s assertion pointing out my muteness whenever faced with a man to whom I am attracted, and I gave an experience with Fulvio as the example.
Here’s how you can tell if I like someone: if I avoid them and don’t talk to them, chances are pretty good that something is up. An even better signal is failure to make eye contact: even in my mid-thirties, I feel like a dorky adolescent who blushes and won’t look her heartthrob in the eyes.
So, what makes the story funny is that in spite of all my embarrassed shyness, I did manage to flirt with Fulvio once. God knows how I managed. It probably came from that part of my soul that just takes over when the situation has reached crisis levels and something absolutely must be done. This makes it sound like I managed to kiss him or something. Reader, please, rein in that imagination. I am not so brazen as to leave aside the blushing thing so easily.
What happened was more like this. One Saturday evening in May, Fulvio had come to Milan for a meeting and was hanging out where everyone in our circle congregated on a Saturday: the bowling alley. It was late in the evening, and Fulvio and I somehow managed to end up at the bar talking. I have absolutely no idea what the conversation was about. What I do remember is that at a certain point, I started to play with the buttons on his oxford. Now that is daring. Here I am, a woman who hides at the first hint of attraction, actually fondling my beloved’s clothing…while he is wearing it! Maybe it’s just me who feels the sexual tension in this situation, but trust me, it was there.
The evening came to a close, and we said good night and went off to our respective abodes. The following day, a close friend invited me to that very same meeting that Fulvio had traveled north to attend. He never said so explicitly, but it was a birthday present, and I knew it. For months I had talked about wanting a Humanist boyfriend, but in reality, I wanted Fulvio. And there he was. It was my birthday (or thereabouts), and the night before I had really flirted with him.
So what did I do? I hid, of course. Fulvio arrived after I did at the gathering, and I barely acknowledged him. The evening passed as I nervously busied myself with “important” matters related to national politics or whatever. In the end, I got a ride home, and I knew that I had really fucked up this time. Regardless of how Fulvio would have reacted, I didn’t even try, even though my friend had gone to the trouble to create the situation.
Looking back on it all, what I realize is how much my friend really loved me.