I spotted the two of them huddled in the corner of the café. She looked moony-eyed; he looked Italian. From the way her fingers caressed him, I knew she was in love.
I sipped my coffee and thought back to my own Italian lover. His name was . . . Olivetti. God, I’ll never forget his compact, solid body, his muscular carriage arm, and his platen—oh, his platen—firm as a new saddle. Even now I can hear the sweet ting of his return bell. We spent countless nights drinking strong black coffee and writing impassioned thesis proposals. But, I must confess, Olivetti wasn’t my first. There have been other—typewriters.