DURING THE Feast of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, Mulberry Street is transformed into the midway of an urban carnival, and the thousands of lights strung above the revelers glitter like constellations in the evening sky. The canopied booths of roulette wheels, ring tosses, and card games are mobbed, and when people aren’t trying to win goldfish or parakeets, they’re bellying up to the food stands, which was where Glenna and I stood in line with the spiced steam of frying sausages washing over us.

Glenna was squinting in concentration, as though opting for a calzone or slice of Sicilian pizza were a decision of some magnitude.

“What’re you having?” she asked.

“Pizza.”

“I’ll have pizza, too.”

As I shouldered into the throng to order, Glenna nodded over at the next booth, saying, “What do they have there?”

I backed out of line, and we approached a counter serving puffs of fried dough powdered with sugar.

“Zeppoli,” I said. “They’re great.”

“Maybe I should have a zeppoli.”

I got into line, and Glenna said, “Zeppoli’re for dessert, aren’t they?”

“Only if you’ve already eaten dinner.”

“Oh, right. What do they stuff the calzone with?”

I told her cheese and sausage, but before I could vouch for their quality, the brawny guy working the counter said to me, “Youse two gonna eat or what?”

I bought some zeppoli, gave the paper plate to Glenna, then went to the other stand and got two slices of pizza, a calzone, and sodas.

“Take your pick,” I said when we were seated at one of the sidewalk tables with the Cinzano umbrellas.

“If I’m by myself or with friends, I can order. Go out on a date, I get sort of stuck.” She smiled sheepishly. “Part of my charm.”

“Which part?”

She laughed. It was a warm night, and after draping her crocheted shawl over her chair, Glenna sampled everything, which was fine with me, since I was so struck by the sheerness of her bell-sleeved shirt, with the whitish-pink fullness of her breasts and the tawny shadows of her nipples showing through, I lost interest in the food.

“You like my top?” Glenna said.

“It’s distracting.”

“You want a closer look, we’ll have to go home.” I readjusted my gaze and heard her chuckle. “Let’s have a drink. My treat.”

Young, miniskirted waitresses were wheeling carts among the tables, and when one of them stopped by, Glenna asked for a gin and tonic and I ordered a Chianti. The waitress poured the drinks, while Glenna stood, sliding her hands in and out of the pockets of her bell-bottoms, an impressive feat given that the velour seemed inseparable from her skin.

“Oh, God,” she said, her cheeks reddening. “I changed three times before we went out. I left my money in my other pants. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, and paid for the drinks. After moving her chair beside mine, Glenna kissed me quickly on the lips and began to eat. She didn’t touch her gin and tonic.