“Look at this waitress! She is by himself!” cries Avio. 

I look. She is young - about twenty-five, has thick, dark hair, is very attractive and, dare I say it, voluptuous - her breasts are pushed up high, her waist is pulled in tight, with a wide belt. She is certainly ‘by himself’, as Avio puts it – and she is flirting with all the male customers, young and old, with her eyes, with the corners of her mouth, with her hips. 

“She is Italian woman, con spirito,” he says. “It means nothing, of course. She plays the game. She greets me. I greet her. We have never met. I joke with her. She jokes with me. I tease her and she laughs and runs her fingertips over my shoulder. If this is France, when she comes back with the wine, there is a man behind her, her husband, and I am dead. Italians open their hearts. They are not formale like the English, or di massima gravita like the French. They play the Italian game of life. So beware, my friend.”