Contessa laughed.

I didn’t know what I was saying – I was having a hard time explaining it.

“La dolce vita,” Contessa said. “The sweet life.”

“It is sweet,” I said.

We came to my bike and stopped.

Contessa stood there, looking at me. She was pretty composed, pretty mature, a pretty together person. Solid and grounded, and very beautiful, that’s the way she seemed to me. That was the sense I got from her, just by looking at her. The way she was looking back at me. That was the European sentiment right there. That wasn’t an American thing. Americans, most of them, they couldn’t just be still and look at you; take time to consider you; hold eye contact and be calm about it; peaceful.

“You were restless, what did you do?”

“Traveled a lot,” Contessa said. “Worked odd jobs.”

It was nice, the way we were looking at each other; the calmness that was there between us, at least for me.

“Where’d you travel?”

“Europe, Southeast Asia, America. Australia, New Zealand. South America.”

I laughed.

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah. Wanderlust. Restless.”

“But now, you’re not, anymore?”

She nodded, then shook her head, then smiled.

“A little,” she said. “Not as much. Yes, still some, but tired of working menial jobs. Wanting to contribute in a more meaningful way.”

She made me smile, just the way she was. Her characteristics, her personality. The way she’d said that. She had a nice quality to her, a nice energy, and she was beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. The way she’d been talking like there was something else, on her mind, too.

She was the kind of woman, if I was in a different place, a different space, if I was ready for a relationship, emotionally ready, she was the kind of woman I’d like to get to know.