Yesterday, Italianni's for the first time. I heard about Italianni's from R3 back in 99, over scattered, rainbow Copics, sheet after sheet of skin-thin tracing paper, the remaining of its transparent whiteness peeping behind the cruel pencil lines, perfectly horizontal and mechanical. He brought me to Italianni's. Heard of it? Unbelievable pasta. Too expensive though. Over at Robinson's, try it. At the back of my head I was thinking: my current boyfriend is a bleeding cheapskate and I am not in love enough to stuff my face with expensive pizza, pretending I am really in some Venetian pizzeria.

(Something about Italy makes you want to equate everything about it with romance and kisses and indecent propositions)


Italianni's was worse than Tony Roma's. Perfectly Shangri-la-ish. Five star accomodation peppered with pretended sunniness secretly hinting an extra tip. How's the food, ma'am, sir? Very good, thank you. Extra napkins? I have enough for now, thank you. How about dessert? Smiles (whispering to one's self) My maternal aunt kicked out three weeks ago because of diabetis. Sugary shit for forty nine years. Swollen right foot. Looked unpretty beneath that casket.

I had a platter of assorted, herbed seafood on a bed of ginger-colored rice. I forked everything. The ice cubes in my tall glass of iced tea (bottomles) moved along with the confection's circular current, like transparent, disfigured ponies of a tangled circus carousel. Paul licked a piece of stewed tomato off his lower lip, the redness of the fruit standing out before the pale pinkness of his chin.

I was balancing Plath's bible-ish journal on my lap. The girl seated to my left looked my way. I stared down on Plath's beamy, flattish face.



My lunch at Italianni's was an advanced celebration of yet another scholastic success. Hopefully.