Momma Mamilla

Mamma Mamilla

Giorgia – a graduate school girlfriend – elevated her quiet nature into an imminent road hazard whenever we strolled down the sidewalk.  Male drivers – necks straining, eyeballs bulging—often smashed into telephone poles or clipped fire hydrants as we sauntered down the avenue, heads up for automotive danger.

Living on the same dormitory floor— we knew each other by sight — but never talked until the night I got blind drunk after breaking up with another undergraduate, an artist who drove race cars.

Can you drive me home? I asked Giorgia, dangling keys in front of a nearly-flawless face slightly smudged by a deviated septum, a casualty of early Cocaine Wars.   She sat talking to girlfriends at the last bar I stumbled into and laughed a yes with smiling eyes before leading me to the car.

I thought you were never going to talk to me, she said, after I blurted a lame excuse to lay the back of my head down on her lap while she drove.

Too forward for a sober man, but acknowledging my condition, she laughed and acquiesced, giggling as I looked skyward, vision blotted out by anti-gravity projectiles.  I’d grown up on a dairy farm and remained unimpressed with mammaries, perhaps making me attractive to such fine specimens.

Giorgia made extra money tutoring “special needs” college students, so I knew there was a beating heart under the quivering mamilla.

We enjoyed each other in countless ways, but then I drove off to Chicago to try out my new degree, and she stayed behind, three years younger and needing attention.

Then Christmas arrived.

Her parents, working-class Italian immigrants with World War Two in the rearview, lived in the suburbs, so we met there, six months of my neglect shading the day.  I drove out from the city and she drove up four hours from the school.   She didn’t need to announce the new attitude sparked by my six-month absence.  The slumped shoulders, the sad turn at the corner of her mouth, and the failure to meet my eye screamed infidelity.

I sorely missed my own family during this precious holiday – turkey, gravy, red wine, brother, parents – as I sat down to a Christmas dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Pizza.

And when her mother bent over to retrieve a box of frozen shrimp sweating under the icebox – it says right on the cover, keep under refrigeration! – darkness turned to light.

Varicose veins, yellow smoker’s teeth, boobs running over knees, forty-five extra pounds. Unassisted grease farts lifting a faded house dress in a hot kitchen.

The future.

When we kissed goodbye and Giorgia swished back to whomever now shared her collegiate bed, I felt the weight lift, the spirit rise.  A window opened.

Glowing skin, radiant eyes, gravity-defying bazookas. Under refrigeration, crammed into bras, or blowing in the wind, they could not defy gravity.  Forever.

May they attract a better man while they can, while they stand — a man who can go the distance — I prayed. 

Someone who neither contemplates expiration dates, nor the continuous emotional support of a sad-and-saggy princess.

Posted by

About the Author Gene Scott, a retired English and reading teacher, was born and raised on the prairie of Western Illinois, and has lived in Johnson City, Tennessee for thirty years with his much better half, Lana.

2 comments

  1. Varicose veins, yellow smoker’s teeth, boobs running over knees, forty-five extra pounds. Unassisted grease farts lifting a faded house dresses in a hot kitchen. All I have is this and man a great story indeed! Way to go!

Leave a Reply to hillpoet Cancel reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.