the last time ever i saw luana raimondi

Luana leaned forward across the cafe table.
She was very beautiful.
Brown eyes of the gazelle and all that jazz.
She'd ruined her hair of course.
The long lustrous shining Sicilian tresses had been shorn into a silly Irish perm thing.
I've said it before and I'll say it again.
Women haven't got a clue.
But she was beautiful.
Animal Sicilian beauty.
Elemental.
Phenomenal.
"James," she said, "do you trust me?"
My face was a study.
"I trust you as a teacher of Italian," I answered cautiously. "Any time I ask you about Italian verb forms, I'm pretty certain you'll give me an honest answer. You would never, for instance, give me the past partciple of capire when I asked for the present tense of sentire. You're fairly consistent in that regard. Or if I ask you for the word for rabbit, you won't give me the word for horse just for the hell of it. Your accent is a bit Sicilian of course, but that can't be helped."
"But do you really trust me," she pressed a tad adorably.
"I hardly know you," I replied with brutal honesty.
Ah yes.
Heelers dazzles another love struck waif.
Ya gotta treat em mean to keep em keen.
And if you believe that I have a bridge to sell you.
But I digress.
Back to Luana.
"I hope someday that will change," she said. "I hope someday you will trust me."
Even a cosmic goon like me would normally know enough to take this sort of statement from a girl like her as being something to be rather pleased about.
Here's what I said next.
Word for word.
"Funny. I don't see trust in our future."
She stood up.
In my heart of hearts I knew the scintillating badinage mixed with Sicilian accented Italian lessons which was our relationship was approaching its end.
She began to gather her things.
"James," she said with a tinge of regret. "You are a lovely guy, una bravissima persona, but you really need to learn to separate different aspects of your life. You are completely unable to trust me simply because I knew a Muslim girl you once knew. That's the only reason."
I shook my handsome head.
"That," I said, "and because you lied when we met again. Remember you pretended we hadn't met before. Acted all confused about knowing the Muslim girl. Ooooh. Which Muslim girl was that? Oooh. Maybe I know her. Oooh. It's all so confusing."
"Jamesssss!"
"And your hair. You ruined your hair. You don't mean to tell me what you've done to your hair isn't a disguise."
Luana was gathering her things at a more rapid pace.
She put on her scarf.
"Nice scarf."
"Thank you."
"Is it Muslim?"
Luana put a hand on her hip.
A wave of elemental energy seemed to flash in her eyes.
She looked effortlessly spectacular in fully fiery sexy Sicilian confrontation mode.
"Yes James," she cried. "Yes. My scarf is Muslim. And my dress is Muslim. And my leather jacket is Muslim."
I watched her go.
Truly she was splendid.
And to think I'd never even noticed the Black Jacket.
What an extraordinary creature.
No doubt about it.
That girl is the best looking girl either in the Mafia or Al Qaeda.
I wonder which it is.