It all began with a kiss. Seemingly out of nowhere, Guido descended
into my life like a grenade, willfully deposited right next to me, to go off
some time in the future. He must have
been watching me for a while. Everyday,
my route was the same: head down to the
local café to drink in a cappuccino, restoring my senses, before greeting the
sunshine in the park next door. I would
throw a journal into my bag for the small glimmer of hope that I might be
inspired to write something. I am in Rome,
the eternal city. Something could happen
worth writing about, couldn’t it? Well,
something did happen, but I was much too busy to even remember to write, let
alone continue to pack my journal.
I was sitting on the edge of the fountain. It was one of those days when the only way to
even be able to sit outside is to do it before 11 in the morning. Otherwise, your skin will blister in the
heat, your clothes will be drenched, and as if in a rain storm, you charge for
shelter inside your shady home, closing the shutters upon yourself like a
locked away treasure.
I should have done this that day; locked myself away. But, I continued to sit, the sun shining
directly on my face as I closed my eyes, lost in thought.
I feel a presence next to me, and open my eyes to see a
smiling figure sitting on the fountain beside me. It took me a few moments to compose myself,
as he said “Buon Giorno”. I smile and
give my best sounding Italian response, “Buon Giorno”. “Oh, an American? Are you American?” Athough spoken in a thick Italian accent, I
knew immediately that he was accustomed to speaking English. I also knew that he probably had done this
before: approached a young woman in the
park on an ordinary afternoon. I try to
get back to reality and compose myself.
He is a pleasant looking man, impeccably dressed, almost out of place in
the steamy park. For all I know this is an
Italian pastime. I have heard and seen
for myself the Italian habit of catcalling, but this was new to me. Oh well, I
will play his game.
“Ciao. Mi chiamo Guido.”
He holds out his hand. It was
surprisingly fresh and clean. “I am
Guido.” “Hello. My name is Sonya.” I make sure my handshake is strong, to let
him know that I am not some unsuspecting American tourist. I’ve been here a while. I notice his teeth as he laughs. Perfect, white, almost movie star
stunning. Kind of surprising for an
Italian. “Well, it is so nice to meet
you Sonya. I work here, just two streets away.
I sell, how do you say in English…real estate… in Rome. I have sold to a very few Americans who come
here for an apartment, but mostly Europeans.
Do you live nearby?” “Yes, very close.” I respond, hesitant to share
with him. He had pointed in the
direction of my apartment when he said he worked nearby. Not sure if I can trust him, just yet. “Well, I will let you get back to the sun. It
will be strong today.” His button-down
shirt is bright and clean, as if he just stepped out of air conditioning, but,
in Italy, air
conditioning is an anomaly. He lightly
touches my upper arm, and I notice that he makes it a point to look me in the
eyes. “Ciao Bella. I will see you soon, OK?” He walks away. And I watch him. He is kind of self assuredly sweet. He left
me with a good feeling, and I admit to thinking about him for a long, long
while. He was hard to resist and very
nice to look at. A good looking
Italian. I love those.
The very next day, I go through my normal routine with a
different intent in mind. I am hoping to
see him again. I only wish I could say
there were alarm bells ringing in my head, but the only things I was thinking
about were how good looking that he was and how intently he looked into my
eyes. It felt like he knew me somehow,
and I felt good in this nameless city. I
spent a good amount of time à la toilette making sure I looked just perfect and
put on my best outfit: a slim fitting
black pencil skirt with a blue top to show off my figure. I thought if only I could control the heat to
make it look like my best outfit, if I am lucky enough to run into him again. Fat chance though. I was drenched before I even went out the
door for my cappuccino. I slide on my sandals with heels and close the door
after me, leaving my journal behind.
This time, when I arrive at my usual café, I notice him
immediately sitting at a table out front, facing the street. I try to pretend I don’t notice him and take
a table closer inside. The shade is much
cooler anyway. I’m not sure how he can
sit in the sun. Could it be acclimation? When I look at him again, he is talking on
his cell phone. Funny, he isn’t using
his hands like most Italians. He is so
calm and composed. He is glancing my way as he speaks. He does not smile, but gives me a look of
recognition. My cappuccino arrives, and
I start to drink. I wish I had brought
my journal today. I’d have something to
occupy myself with. I should be doing
some work on my research as well, but my mind has admittedly been too
distracted for serious thought ever since yesterday morning. The cappuccino doesn’t seem to be giving me
back my senses this morning. In fact, I
think I’ve lost them permanently. I am
feeling a little disarmed, but in a good way. Feeling full of freedom and
lightness, and I value this feeling. It
is as if life could go on forever indefinitely.
I notice him smiling at me while on the phone. He is now looking at me intently, and I start
to feel slightly exposed, uncomfortable.
I look down and contemplate leaving my cappuccino half finished, when he
gets up and starts walking toward me. “Ciao..uh,
Sonya, is that right?” He takes my hand and he kisses me lightly on the cheek.
I offer the other and notice his scent as I breathe in, almost sighing
anxiously. This really is not like me at
all. To be nervous. Not sure where this is coming from. “You are going to the park today? I will take you there.” I hesitantly respond ok, as he reassures me, taking my hand,
“Don’t worry. I am a
buon uomo, a good man.” And he laughs.
buon uomo, a good man.” And he laughs.
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