I'm Maggie McGuire, and I have a boyfriend. His name is Frankie Moretti. And I'm telling this story.
Frankie sells cars. He makes loads of money. The Godfather is etched into the window of his office.
He's the best salesperson at the dealership. But it wasn't always like that. It began when Frankie was flat-broke and needed to make a quick buck. So, he put sold signs on the windshields of cars except for one.
Yes, siree. He sold his first car within fifteen minutes for twice as much as it was worth. By the end of that week, he had sold every automobile on the lot. He's brilliant.
Frankie wears a diamond ring on his right index finger and likes to show it off. Sometimes, he taps his finger on top of his desk. Other times, he rolls the ring with his thumb. The stone has an inclusion. It doesn't matter-- it's still a three-karat diamond. And it shines.
He drives a Cadillac Seville. Leather seats, a tape deck. He loves Dean Martin songs, especially "That's Amore." His voice blends with Dean's.
They make an unbelievable duo.
When it comes to food, the sky's the limit. No matter the cost. Lobster is wonderful. Steak is choice. Wine? Always the best.
Frankie is a bachelor and promised his mama he'd never get married. She's an old lady, and he's her only son.
Handsome in his pin-striped suit. His wavey black hair grays at the temples. Not only that, but he’s also a fantastic dancer.
One day, he says in a heavy Italian accent, "I'm tired of sellin' da cars. I’m a wanna dance."
What does he do?
He drives his Cadillac Seville to the Italian Club.
He smiles. He laughs. He dances.
Sometimes he dances with his eyes open and sometimes with them closed. He winds down toward the dance floor, then, like a corkscrew in the neck of a bottle, he spirals up.
Frankie gets lost in the music. He dances every night until he doesn't.
One night, there's too much wax on the dance floor and too much wine in his stomach.
So, when the band starts to play the Chicken Dance, he leans back, flaps his elbows, and high steps towards the dance floor.
Frankie slips and falls. His head hits hard on the floor.
His eyes close. His mouth draws down. Frankie doesn't dance anymore.
I'm Maggie McGuire, and that's the end of my story.
Frankie sells cars. He makes loads of money. The Godfather is etched into the window of his office.
He's the best salesperson at the dealership. But it wasn't always like that. It began when Frankie was flat-broke and needed to make a quick buck. So, he put sold signs on the windshields of cars except for one.
Yes, siree. He sold his first car within fifteen minutes for twice as much as it was worth. By the end of that week, he had sold every automobile on the lot. He's brilliant.
Frankie wears a diamond ring on his right index finger and likes to show it off. Sometimes, he taps his finger on top of his desk. Other times, he rolls the ring with his thumb. The stone has an inclusion. It doesn't matter-- it's still a three-karat diamond. And it shines.
He drives a Cadillac Seville. Leather seats, a tape deck. He loves Dean Martin songs, especially "That's Amore." His voice blends with Dean's.
They make an unbelievable duo.
When it comes to food, the sky's the limit. No matter the cost. Lobster is wonderful. Steak is choice. Wine? Always the best.
Frankie is a bachelor and promised his mama he'd never get married. She's an old lady, and he's her only son.
Handsome in his pin-striped suit. His wavey black hair grays at the temples. Not only that, but he’s also a fantastic dancer.
One day, he says in a heavy Italian accent, "I'm tired of sellin' da cars. I’m a wanna dance."
What does he do?
He drives his Cadillac Seville to the Italian Club.
He smiles. He laughs. He dances.
Sometimes he dances with his eyes open and sometimes with them closed. He winds down toward the dance floor, then, like a corkscrew in the neck of a bottle, he spirals up.
Frankie gets lost in the music. He dances every night until he doesn't.
One night, there's too much wax on the dance floor and too much wine in his stomach.
So, when the band starts to play the Chicken Dance, he leans back, flaps his elbows, and high steps towards the dance floor.
Frankie slips and falls. His head hits hard on the floor.
His eyes close. His mouth draws down. Frankie doesn't dance anymore.
I'm Maggie McGuire, and that's the end of my story.
