La Dolce Vita

Roberto is a seventy-something Casanova type, straight out of central casting.  His copious head of hair belies his years, and the pomade he slicks it back with is worthy of its’ own zip code.  When he walks by, the scent of wine intermingles with the musky cologne that Fabio used to smell like in the 1990’s.  His powerful aroma wafts by like the waves in the ocean.   His intoxicating blue eyes twinkle as he approaches me.  Thank goodness he is in full-on aging movie star mode as he is bedecked in a puritanical white robe that conceals the European Speedo tightly embracing his skinny legs.   His man-made piano teeth are, impossibly, bleached to perfection, and appear even whiter in contrast to his perpetually deep tan.  All he is missing is a flute of champagne and a face-lift to reinforce the stereotype of “I used to party and smoke with Sophia Loren in the good old days of La Dolce Vita.”

“Hello!”, he flirtatiously bats his eyelashes at me.  (Yeh, men do that too!)

“Hi,” I, brilliantly respond.  I decide to refrain from my typical snarkiness.  Usually I would’ve asked if he was filming a movie in that get-up or inform him that the 1970s called and wanted their outfit back, PRONTO.

But, I don’t.  (I’m so proud of myself)

“You live in dissa building, no?”  

If I close my eyes, I can pretend I’m back in Sardinia.

“Umm…for about three years.”  I respond.

“Yes, I see you alla the time.  You keepa yawselfa in verry gooda shapa!”

I think it is a compliment.  So, I ask,

“Is that a compliment?”

He laughs.  I like him already.

“What apartmente are you inna?” 

That was pretty quick, so I unleash my inner witch with a “b”.

“I don’t think your lovely wife wants to know!”

He comes closer and whispers softly.

“She doesn’t have to knowa”.

“Well, she will, if this keeps up.” I retort.

At my age, every innuendo is appreciated, from afar.  The older I get, the more adept I am at cutting down the Don Juans right at their knees.  It’s a beautiful thing. #oldiesbutgoodies