The next few days were spent studying hard at Her classes and enjoying Firenze. She also enjoyed getting to know the young man at the apartment. She didn’t know what it was about him but it certainly made Her feel good about Herself which was very rare because emotions came by rarely to Her nature. He somehow put Her at ease and took Her mind off the fraught, violent and bloodthirtsy life She had to lead. The heat rose during an evening walk along the Arno. They came across a stall selling fruits and they bought some water-melon pieces. Up to that point they enjoyed a friendliness but then he fed a piece to Her matter of factly. It seemed innocent yet She felt the warmth flush through Her body and down to Her pussy. Something had changed. As they walked back home She felt a trickle of wetness down the inside of Her leg so while he wasn’t looking She quickly wiped Her finger where it ran. On rubbing it between thumb and forefinger She saw it was arousal but had never had this happen. Such was Salvatore’s case, and it was Summers Correctional Institute that led Salvatore Petrucelli toward his re-definition. Sal saw himself as jombotte, one of his favorite meals as a kid. You cook up some broccoli rob, and beans. Then you take old bread [that was Sal] you break it up, mix it in, and let the juices of the fresh broccoli leaves, and beans revitalize the bread, making it even tastier then it was at its freshest. The correctional institute was a crash course in Proactive Recovery. Passing through his kitchen, Salvatore thought of the Summers mess hall, the twice daily allotment of mashed potatoes, the inch thick slabs of bologna covered with one slice of melted Kraft cheese, the one Styrofoam cup he had -with the tiny hole in the bottom- the cup they refused to replace. I never wanna see that place ever ever again, he thought while undressing, and tossing each item into the bathroom hamper. Salvatore turned on the shower, and stepped inside. He lathered up, recalling.
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