ABSTRACT
There, on the road ahead of us, a boy of sixteen is walking backward with confident strides, one arm extended, thumb erect. An Italian obviously, newly ripe and cocky, with flushed cheeks and limpid eyes. He is wearing one of those mesh jerseys that stops just below the chest, exposing a woolly stripe descending from his navel into his jeans. He bends his head as we pass, looks in, and smiles with a seductive mix of arrogance and pleading. A moment later he is in the rearview mirror, a torso locked neatly into hips, fierce buttocks pumping against denim on this hot August day.
