Letters To Rome

5

My phone vibrated against the marble sink.

gelato boy: ciao bella, I'm here.

"Shit."

The counter looked like a disaster. Half-opened lipstick tubes, mascara rolling toward the edge, perfume smudges on the mirror. I tossed everything I could into my Miu Miu bag: lip gloss, concealer, gum, and keys. My eyes catch something on the bed — Lorenzo's lighter. I stop, staring at it for a moment.

Should I take it? Maybe I'll smoke, maybe I just want to hold it, think of him for a second. I feel my chest twist. God, I'm going on a date with another guy, and I'm thinking about Lorenzo. I don't even know him. I have to stop. From now on, I'm done thinking of him. Done.

But still, I pick up the lighter and put it in my bag, almost like an anchor, a tiny piece of him I can carry without anyone seeing. Okay, I think firmly, that's it. This is the last time. He's gone. Never gonna see him again. Done.

My phone buzzes. Another text. There's no time to debate throwing the lighter back on the bed. I tuck the bag under my arm. Where's my hairbrush? Oh well. I have to go.

I glance in the mirror, but don't actually look. It doesn't matter to me anyway. I wipe my hands on a towel, grab my jacket, and open the Airbnb door. The air is cold, and I can hear mopeds from miles away. I take a deep breath and remind myself: I'm twenty-one, single, and in Rome. None of this has to mean anything.

I spot him leaning against a BMW — a shiny, too-nice-for-his-job kind of car. I hesitate for a second, but then he waves at me. He opens the passenger door from inside. I slide inside the car, the leather seats sticking to my legs. I force a small smile. And of course, he kisses me on the cheek and keeps his left hand on the steering wheel, his right painfully close to my thighs.

The ride to the bar is quiet. Not painfully quiet... just the kind that makes me wish I'd stayed home and ordered pasta instead. The quiet is interrupted by a raspy voice with a strong Italian accent.

"Some of my friends are actually meeting us at the bar." Great! That means this is not a date. I look out of the window and smile.

"What? Did you think it would be just us two?" he scoffed. "You know, if that bothers you, bella, it can be just us two." I look at him with a furrowed brow. He has half a smirk on and isn't paying attention to the road. I laugh under my breath and say, "That does not bother me. And my name is Francesca, stop calling me bella."

After what felt like an hour, we get to a bar full of young people. He parks the BMW on the side of a narrow street, a few steps away from the bar. It isn't fancy, but it isn't ugly either. Just rough around the edges in a way that almost feels intentional. The kind of place that doesn't try too hard but still ends up attracting cool people. The building has a brutalist kind of structure, all concrete and sharp lines, but there are touches of warmth too—old chandeliers hanging unevenly from the ceiling, neon signs flickering pink and blue against the walls, a couple of disco balls catching the streetlights.

Most of the people are outside, crowding the sidewalk, drinking and smoking. The smell of weed mixed with vodka and cheap perfume blends together perfectly. Everyone there looks like they belong, you know? Effortlessly pretty, like the kind of people who don't need to try to look interesting.

There is a pretty extensive line to get into this place. He grabs my hand before I can even process the line stretching down the street. I let him pull me along, the leather of his jacket brushing my wrist. I can smell his woody perfume. At least he smells good. I glance around, wide-eyed, obviously looking like a tourist, taking in everyone laughing, smoking, holding drinks, looking impossibly put-together.