Page 102 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Signore e signori.” I gesture to the cascading pools before us, steam rising like nature’s own special effects. “Welcome to the Saturnia Hot Springs. That distinctive aroma? It’s sulfur, straight from Mother Earth herself.”

The pale blue waters cascade down natural stone terraces, creating steaming pools that look like something from a fantasy movie. Water flows from a small waterfall at the top, rushing down over smooth rocks, the sound soft and hypnotic. The scent? Okay, it’s not exactly an ocean breeze, but the sight more than makes up for it.

My group of seniors are already suited up, ready to conquer these springs with towels and beach bags.

“These waters are heated by our local volcano. A constant temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius, maintained by…” I trail off, my mind drifting to Katie.

Katie.Her name lingers in my mind like a melody. She’s at Enrico’s vineyard with Caterina, preparing the place for Stan and Rose’s sixty-year celebration. I can picture Caterina in one of her flamboyant rants about Italian men and Katie chiming in with an exaggerated story about me. Those two are probably making an assembly line of decorations and food while teasing each other about who’s more of a perfectionist(Katie).I’m sure Katie’s working her organizational magic and turning the chaos of a last-minute party into a dream come true.

“Earth to Matteo!” Margaret snaps. “You were telling us about the magical powers of fart water?”

“Ah, sì,scusate,”I say. “These waters have been known for their healing properties for thousands of years. In fact, the Romans would journey here to heal their wounds.”

“Well, hot damn.” Chester grins, adjusting his swim trunks which are riding dangerously high.

“Maybe it’ll fix my arthritis!”

“And my bum knee!” Agnes adds. “Years of teetering in stilettos—worth every twisted ankle!”

“What about fixing my second ex-husband’s personality?” Mrs. Thomas says. “He’s permanently glued to his La-Z-Boy, so we’re gonna need a crane to get him in there.”

The distinctive rumble of a tour bus engine cuts through our laughter. I don’t even need to look. It’s Italy Express—a rolling crimson reminder of everything wrong with modern tourism. Their massive bus gleams in the afternoon sun, pristine and soulless.

Their guide steps out in his pressed red polo, looking as if he irons it between mandatory gift shop stops. His herd of tourists follows, each sporting matching shirts and those ridiculous headphones, shuffling out like a horde of zombies.

“Fifteen minutes for photos and restroom breaks,” Red Polo announces with the excitement of a flat soda. “Please maintain appropriate distance from the water; we don’t have time to towel off and the buses have a strict no-swimsuit policy.”

Any other day this would make my blood boil. But today? My heart is too full of Katie to care about these corporate puppets. Let them have their fifteen minutes. We’ll stay here and soak up paradise until our fingers prune.

“Let’s get wet!” I say and my group bursts into cheers.

“Cannonball!” Howie’s war cry echoes across the springs as he launches into the water.

“Right behind you, my Southern stallion!” Deb says, her designer swimsuit a shimmer of stardust‚ before splashing in.

I help Rose navigate the slick stones, her small hand gripping mine with fragile strength. The water laps at our ankles, warm and inviting.

Katie would love this, the two of us floating in this oasis. Her lips would taunt me, drawing us closer, our bodies pressing each other until—

Cazzo. My cock just threw me a surprise party, and I’m suddenly very grateful for the water’s cloudy properties. It’s going to be a long day until I see her again.

Maybe tonight I’ll take her back to that wine cellar, show her exactly how much I missed her…

Merda. Romeo’s dagger strikes again. It seems my dick won’t rest until it embarrasses me in front of all my seniors.

“Matteo!” Chester’s voice breaks through my increasingly dangerous thoughts. “Watch this! I’m going to do a handstand!”

“Wait!” I shout. “Don’t go—”

Too late.He’s upside down mere seconds before he emerges from the water, spitting and choking.

“It’s official.” Chester gags. “This water tastes worse than it smells.”

An hour later, Lorenzo appears at the edge of the springs, his face the color of overripe tomatoes. He’s holding his breath, a handkerchief clamped over his nose like it’s all that stands between him and death by sulfur. With a dramatic flair, he flashes five fingers.

I know why he’s here, but today I’m feeling mischievous.

“Mi dispiace!” I call out in my most innocent tour guide voice. “Your hand signals are confusing me. Perhaps draw me a picture?”

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