mouth, placed it between his rear molars and gave it the old bite test.

“Of course it’s real, you idiot,” snapped Giuseppe from the balcony. “Now, piss off to the tavern. If I have any bidding for you, I will let you know.”

Bobo bowed slightly, clicked his heels, slid the coins into his pants pocket and stepped toward the tavern. He walked a few paces, just out of sight of Giuseppe’s balcony, and then, with complete nonchalance, pulled a ripe Love Apple from his pants pocket. He scrutinized it briefly then polished it against his not especially clean shirt. Bobo brought the tomato to his nose, gave it a slight sniff, then opened his mouth and took a large bite. “Mmmm,” Bobo hummed, eyebrows raised in approval.

In which Davido Contemplates

His Fate & Curses

a Roman God

“Cupid, curs’d, meddling Cupid!” bemoaned Davido, “’Tis no wonder the name so rhymes with stupid. Pudgy, errant, pedant, fat with impish rhyme and reason, to set my eyes upon the fairest treason and shoot me full of this seditious nectar turning me to Paris when tradition demand me Hector. Oh, curs’d Cupid, such poor aim as to miss by a mile and set an Ebreo heart upon a gentile.”

Davido had never actually cursed Cupid before. As a monotheistic Ebreo, he’d never given the mischievous Roman love god much thought; but considering the suddenness and irony of emotions that assailed Davido, Cupid seemed a natural foil. The trip home from the village had been brutal— brutally silent. Nonno hadn’t uttered a word, but between the frequent heavy sighs of “Oy” and the constant pulling at his beard, Davido could practically hear what was on his grandfather’s mind.

From the moment they packed up their stand and left the piazza, Davido understood the bind in which he had put Nonno. Indeed, for Nonno it was a winless choice between postponing the wedding or alienating and, even worse, possibly antagonizing the local populace. Not to mention the potential loss of the bride’s price already paid, and the logistics and embarrassment of delaying a wedding a mere thirteen days away. But nonetheless, Davido’s immediate feelings as the wagon rolled out of the village and toward home were ones of immense relief. In no way could he see himself marrying that skinny-ankled little girl; the day’s events had, it seemed, delayed that. However, as their journey back to their farm continued, Nonno’s anguish began to wear on Davido. So much so that by the time they turned onto the entrance-way of their farm, the ramifications of Davido’s desire and the day’s drama were more than enough to return his feet to the ground and plant them firmly in a pile of merda of his own making.

“Tell me, Cupid,” said Davido as he now walked alone between the rows of tomato plants, “when you dipped your arrow in amorous potion and set it fly in romantic motion, did you have not the slightest inkling about into whom your love arrow’d be sinking? To aim and shoot in such wretched haste, to undo a wedding and set a bride’s price to waste. To conflict me so of heart and head, that I know not which more I dread—this sorrowful choice, both ways a sin: deceive my heart or deceive my kin? Why in heaven’s name could you not bless my life and enchant me to love the one who’s to be my wife? What have I done to deserve such a horrible, wonderful hex that you deal this Ebreo from a Roman text? For what choice have I but to risk all there is to spoil, as my veins, my heart, do run with olive oil?

“Oh, dear God!” said Davido suddenly aware of his own speech patterns, “my head’s amok with foolish glory, my tongue rhyming like a rimatori. But to speak such thoughts aloud, to act upon this joy, would surely turn this patch of Tuscany to Troy. Yet why I do curse—should I not rejoice? Is not all this talk of Cupid but my secret desire’s voice? Just this morning did I not arise convinced that Florence would be my demise? That better to set Nonno and all my kin to stew and rankle, than wed that girl of puny wrist and skinny ankle. Yet never did I imagine such power to manifest and call this Cupid to my behest, aiming my vision, perfect, ‘tween the figs and melon, piercing me with this sight of Helen. So that in an instant, timeless and