What I’m about to write really needs the photos that could accompany it, but for logistical reasons that will soon become clear I don’t have them.
There’s a man outside my office door. He’s digging a giant hole — some sort of phys plant improvement going on here. He’s waist-deep in the ground, just a navy blue t-shirt and the rest of his magnificent self sticking out of this giant hole, and I keep thinking about something my Mom and I would say when she was here. We decided the men here are beautiful… like art is beautiful. Not even like you really need to know them or talk to them or anything, but you can just appreciate them walking by or sitting in a cafe or eating breakfast… or digging a big hole outside your office.
We’d nudge and say to one another, “Like art…”
When I walked in just now with my hands full he said, “Buon giorno.” I was being my American self and was just going to walk into my office without saying anything even though I’d seen him over there. When I said, “Buon giorno” back, he smiled. It was a Patrick Dempsey, bankable, oh-my-goodness-look-at-the-miracle-of-that-mouth, made me weak in the knees and happy all over smile.
Then I walked into my office and here we are. Like art, I tell you. He’s absolutely beautiful. Black hair, blue eyes, Roman god gorgeous.
I couldn’t figure out how taking his photo to accompany this story would be in any way appropriate.
Things are looking up. I’m going to a fondue party tonight; I had lunch with a great group of women; my things will all arrive Tuesday afternoon. This is progress.