THE problem was Paola.

I met her at an Italian restaurant in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, where she was a devastatingly cute waitress and I a frequent customer  and not just because of the devastatingly cute waitress. The food was good, too.

The restaurant was owned and operated and even staffed by actual Italians. One time, Paola let on that she gave Italian lessons on the side. I had studied in Florence in college and nurtured an abiding interest in Italian language, food and culture. So, not wanting to be the creepy guy who asks the waitress out, I signed up for Italian lessons. That way, I would just be the creepy guy who asks the tutor out. That was way better.

After some stops and starts and wacky misunderstandings involving language, food and culture, we were in something like love and living together in a loft in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. We broke up once, then got back together.

A few years into the relationship, I jotted down these thoughts: “I need a better quality pen to write about Paola. What kind of person is she? Besides the obvious. The strength. The beauty. The individuality. The fierceness of her intellect. The confidence that may or may not be real. How she straddles multiple worlds refusing to be either citizen or stranger in any. Men look at her with something bordering on adoration. She has the ability to show unrestrained joy and still look cool. When she wears a certain hat, she looks like a woman out of time, which suits her well. I need a better pen still.”