The next day, a new set of policemen arrived at my door. One of them was the most ravishing man I’d ever seen. Instead of a shaved head, he had dark curly hair that fell just to his shoulders. He had large blue-green eyes. He had a nice smile showing even white teeth. He had a dark tan, and like his comrades, the short sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up. It was his arms that blew me away.

“Holy Shit Mom, look at his arms!” I couldn’t help uttering.

“Well, YOU’RE feeling better!” was my mother’s response.

“Actually I still feel like shit, but my gawd, look at this man at my door! He’s like a fricking Greek God!”

“Yes, I agree, but could he possibly be nice too? With looks like that?”

For most of the day I wasn’t well enough to talk to him. But by late afternoon, I found myself stopping at the door and saying hello. HE WAS NICE! I stood there in my stupid shapeless overly-large pink nightgown that was all bunched up around the faschia, and chatted with the holy grail of male aesthetic perfection.

This guy was ridiculously gorgeous. I didn’t even know they made men like that anymore. Only in Italy. A man that looks like that, AND speaks Italian? Purely physical male juiciness doesn’t get any better. Only in Italy.

How could this be happening when I looked the biggest piece of crap? When I looked 80 years old, with my face all gaunt and gray, with sunken eyes. I’ll tell you how I wanted to be. I wanted to be in my most cleavage-enhancing top. My black “hoochy mamma” one. It is spandex, tight fitting, with shoulder straps and shows half my boobs. I wanted to be in that top, with my skin tinged a honey-color and my hair with streaks of blond from a few weeks on an Italian island. I wanted my eyes to be bright and my wrinkles not to show. I wanted to stand in front of that man, just stand there, close enough to touch him, just stand there and feel his masculine power meeting my feminine power. Feel those energies swirl around us.

And then I wanted to simply follow him. Where ever it was he might take me. He was one of those men that you simply surrender to. It would be crime not to. Why else would God put a man like that on earth, if not to let a female, for one time in her life, feel like the most dashing prince she’s ever seen has just pulled her up onto his horse?

And readers, I am sorry, I don’t have a picture of him. I was too ill to think of photos. And no, I didn’t get his email address. I was too ill to think of that either. We chatted for just a few minutes. He told me he wants to ride across the western parts of the U.S. on a motorcycle. I told him about Colorado and why it would be lovely on a motorcycle. But did I give him my email and say: “Contact me if you ride through Colorado”?? NO! I’m an Idiot. A dimwit, dumbell, dunce.

I was out on the terrace, talking on the phone to a friend who had called me from the U.S. when it came time for him to leave. Apparently he came to say goodbye to me, my mother told me later. But not finding me in the room, he left. He walked out into the Florentine evening, and perhaps back into the story book about Greek Gods from whence he’d come.

So, Piero, from Puglia, who is a policeman in Florence: Here’s to you. Here’s to you beautifying my ugly hospital surroundings. Here’s to you and your amazing arms, giving a very sick girl a chance to experience something enchanting and enticing. You can stand at the door of my bedroom ANYTIME!!