Contessa.

Three months will pass before I get a chance to see Contessa. She has two semesters of grad classes left at the University of Chicago where she’s getting her Masters in Middle Eastern Studies. She also owns a belly dancing studio and she’s booked for classes all the way into February. And somehow she seems to fit in her  schedule going to a boys and girls center once a week to choreograph a girls dance team.  Nevertheless, our chemistry is such that we maintain our feelings for each other through long late night conversations on the phone. With both of us having full schedules until spring break time will pass by very quickly.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

“Where are you, Romulus?”

“Right outside the airport.”

“Okay, I’m walking down the concourse. Which way should I go?”

“Keep walking straight. Take the escalator down and turn left. Walk a few yards and you’ll see the main exit. You’ll see me standing to your left as you walk outside.”

“Okay baby! I can’t wait to see you!”

For a split second a thought comes to my mind that I wouldn’t be able to spot her in the mad rush of people that spill out of the main entrance periodically and scatter in different directions like cats to parents, husbands, wives, cabs and shuttle buses waiting for them in the loading lane.  Then I think to myself - hell naw - Contessa stands out like a pink flamingo in a flock of black crows wherever she goes.

Maintaining focus on the main entrance of the airport I spot in the sea of mild mannered, conservative crowd of former passengers a long, bright reddish brown mane of hair. “Contessa!” I yelled to get her attention. She’s already walking on her tiptoes as she looks around, like a giddy ballerina, trying to locate the voice that yelled her name. “Romulus!” She screams as she locates me standing next to my car.

She sprints toward me, her black nine inch heels click clacking against the asphalt and her suitcase rolling behind her in her left hand. The blood red lipstick highlights the pearly white teeth that make up her fabulous smile and her bright reddish brown hair frames her exotic Mediterranean facial features.  As I look at this woman I still can’t believe she’s 48 years old - she has the body of 25-year-old woman - wearing a tight little white t-shirt, her firm breasts accentuating the Von Biatch across her chest, and the tiny, tight blue jeans that tapers perfectly down her shapely legs. As she gets closer she opens her right arm to hug me. I notice with my peripheral vision three airport cops  eye balling Contessa as she click clacks toward me - the jealous look on their faces as Contessa lets go of her suitcase  to aggressively hug me with both arms while giving me a long, deep, passionate French kiss.

“I’m so happy to see you, baby!” Yells Contessa before hugging and kissing me again passionately. “You changed the color of your hair again.”  I said. She turns her head to the left, then to the right showcasing her hair. “Damn your hair is sexy,” I tell her. “The color makes your grey eyes sparkle like diamonds.”  She giggles like a 12-year-old school girl and caresses my face with the back of her hand. “Oh you’re so cute!” She says as she cups my face with both of her hands.  “Lets get going,”  I tell her. “We have a lot to do and you need some rest before you get to enjoying your vacation away from the hustle and bustle.” She maintains her bright smile as I put her suitcase and bag in my trunk.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Contessa neatly puts her things away in the bedroom and the bathroom as I prepair dinner for her. “Are you ready to eat?” I ask her while she’s in the bathroom. “Sure but I only want a little.” She says. I walked into the bathroom to find her massaging lotion into her face after having washed her makeup off.  While she’s massaging her face I walk up behind and embrace her - wrapping my arms around her narrow shoulders. She turns around and gets up on her tiptoes to hold my face with both hands kissing me gently. “We’re having Moroccan chicken with wild rice and mixed veggies” I tell her at the end of our kiss. “MMMMMmm. That sounds delightful,” says Contessa. “I’ve been waiting to see if you’re as good a cook as you say.” She says as she rubs up and down my back, finally resting her hands on my butt.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” I tell her. “The table is already set and the food is at the table.” She hurries to the table and hops in her seat with a big smile as she surveys the food on the table. “It smells and looks so good,” says Contessa. “Who taught you how to cook?” She asks. “My mom did.” I respond. “She’s a gourmet cook,” I tell her. “People come from miles around to pay for her cooking.” I tell her. She prepares her plate and takes a bite of the chicken. After a few seconds of chewing she closes her eyes, then rolls her eye up to the ceiling with a look of ecstasy on her face. “This is soooooo good!!” She says with an Italian flair. “Thank you.” I said. “Oh Romulus,” She says. “We have to go to the grocery store so I can buy some items to make you a fabulous Italian dish.” She says with a wiggle to her hips as she puts a fork full of rice in her mouth. “Ah, now that’s what I’ve been waiting on,” I said to her. “I want to try some of those old country Italian dishes you’ve been bragging about.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

(Saturday, 8:30am) The sun is shining brilliantly over the technicolored Tennessee Valley mountain range as we thread our way through the barely visible trails that cut through the mountain side. “Oh my goodness,” says Contessa. “An  Agalinis purpurea!” She races over to a patch of flowers  growing near a deeply embedded rock and digs up a small patch of the flowers with her little shovel. “Umm, what’s the common name for that flower?” I ask Contessa in a giggling voice. “Gerardia.” She says in a serious scientific tone as she analyzes the pedals and the dirt that holds the fist full of flowers together. “I’ve never seen one in person,” She says “but then again I’ve never been this far South either.” She says as she looks at me with a wide smile and blinks both of her eyes while putting stem ends of the flowers in a plastic bag.

“Romulus, I want to thank you again for bringing me out here.” Says Contessa as walks up to me and lovingly grasps my hand while we balance ourselves down a steep narrow section of the trail. “I couldn’t wait to see the smile on your face when you finally got a chance to see my favorite hiding spot.” I tell her as I anchor myself with a tree while guiding her around a group of tall, moss covered boulders. As we reach the other end of the boulders Contessa dashes away to another bed of wildflowers. “Claytonia Virginica!” She yells as she stoops down to dig up a bunch of the flowers. Suddenly, she pulls a flower from the patch of dirt she dug up and starts chewing on it. “Mmmm!” She says as she analyzes the taste of the plant like an experienced California wine taster. “These are called Spring Beauties.” She says as she hands one to me. “They’re edible! Try one!” She tells me with a big smile. “It tastes like tart collard greens.” I tell her as I continue chewing. “I’m going to take these back home and plant them,” She says. “hopefully they’ll survive.”

From the position of the sun I can tell it was about 1pm, which means it’s time to head back to my apartment and pack so we can drive down to Birmingham. “It’s starting to get late,” I tell Contessa. “We need to get back so we can make it to my mom’s house in time for dinner and chill before we go clubbing.” She wraps her arm around my waste and pulls me closer. “This is so exciting, Romulus,” She says. “I can’t tell you when I’ve had so much fun.” She looks up to make eye contact. “Can we come back after we visit Birmingham?” She asks. “Sure,” I say. “In fact I’ll take you on the other side of the park where there’s three large caves.” She smiles and jumps up and down.

“Your mom sounds like such a nice lady on the phone.” She says as we turn around and head back towards the car. “She’s real.” I tell her. “One thing about my mom is she’s a very good judge of character.” I tell her as we swing our joined hands back and forth. “Do you think she’ll like me?” Contessa asks in an almost fearful voice. “Oh sure,” I tell her. “We have very similar personalities and I’m sure she’ll think you’re a cool person, especially as outgoing and inquisitive as you are.” She smiles again as she looks toward the Tennessee Valley and marvels at the colorful trees that reflect the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

Comments

[Passing By]

Your a talented writer nonetheless I still get the impression that this experience is more fiction than reality