standing at the hostess stand,
overhearing some rich Italian-American who lives in a south suburb of Chicago during many-vodkad lunches with his associates at Bruno, my job. he talks about his vacations. There is a wife hazily in the story, because thats what you do but these men all come here to pat the young ones on the back and embrace and be themselves, feel important, nurture each other. “I’ll take care of you” they keep saying, literally and out loud. Yesterday the bald tan one got a new lamborgini or porsche, which one has the yellow horse decal? and everyone kept hugging him for it. Many-vodkad lunches. Anyway this first guy, a white haired man, trim and happy told the younger guy, “I’ve been a lot of places but none compare to the Amalfi Coast.” and in my position of being paid to stand and do nothing, i must fantasize a lot so the Amalfi was great material, but I am surprised by which woman I imagine there with me.
Nina and I,
cool in shades and blazers, hers white, no shirt under. We move with ease through hotels and then on jets, beaches. We’re the wealthy lesbians from America. We’re there for a concert or festival, our own work. the thing I like is you don’t choose who goes with you to the Amalfi Coast, like that man with his wife I am sure he likes well enough. you go there with who makes sense, and besides I don't think the woman I love at the time would like it there: in this fantasy, there was no tension. In fact that is the allure, at the Amalfi Coast nothing is turbulent, it is just where you go to relax and enjoy your money because you work so hard. Or at least us rich lesbians do.