Nico drove with one hand caressing the steering wheel, the very picture of the bella figura so fundamental to Italian manhood. His other arm lay along the seatback, . . .
The dad had a sweet tooth; it was something fierce. When it got ahold of him, no matter where he was—clearing invasives on the job, taking the kids for a weekend, . . .
The Quiet Boy Noé Who Waited to Speak
He listened, very well.
He could not help himself.
Every sound he heard he remembered,
Making a great library of music inside himself. . . .