An American art student, I sat now at a small round table in  Rome’s Piazza Navona.

“Oh, pretty woman!”

The beauty of a young woman sitting alone close by had me mesmerized.

Attired in a long-sleeved red dress with a demure neckline, she looked like Italian nobility.  Beneath auburn tresses pinned atop her head, her pale face seemed chiseled from marble.

As she sipped wine, her green eyes met mine.  Moments later her departure was sudden.

I’m a coward when it comes to approaching women I don’t know.  But in my head I was hearing the final strains of Roy Orbison’s classic:

    Pretty woman don't walk on by

    Pretty woman don't make me cry

I rose quickly to follow.

    But wait . . .

    What do I see?

    Is she walkin' back to me?

    Yeah, she's walkin' back to me.

    Oh, oh, pretty woman.

She returned my grin as I stepped toward her.