I crawled past the leafy greens and hid behind a pimpled gourd to watch her, this tomato vender in the mercato nibbling on her knuckle. I needed a foolproof disguise to get closer, so I bit open a huge bag of basil and picked it apart with my thumb. Then I climbed inside, pulled the back of it over my head and poked a little peep-hole in the front. I hopped past the cabbage to the salted meat and almost got discovered by a fishmonger reaching into me for a few leaves to garnish his scrod. I finally made it to her, my knees tired from squatting, the bottom of the bag, though I had reinforced it with veal cutlets, wearing extremely thin. When I finally garnered enough courage, I pushed my head through the greenery, like a smooth muskrat in the lily pads, but she didn’t notice me. I tried tickling her ankle with the tip of a leaf and humming the first ten seconds of Vivaldi’s Spring, but nothing, her eyes fixed on a few mice crawling through the parsnips. So I slowly slid my arms back through my suspenders, thinking, for a moment, of the great Italian lovers: Michelangelo, Vasari, Leonardo— before I tip-toed out the door.