Letters To Rome

8

I'm folding laundry when his message comes in. I'm just sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to convince myself that folding my laundry is a normal adult activity and not an act of war against my own laziness. There's a sock draped over my knee, and my suitcase is wide open on the wooden floor. 

My phone buzzes once.

Then again.

At first, I ignore it. My brain has started to believe messages can wait, even though my anxiety could never allow that level of peace.

Still, I try.

I lasted one whole second.

Then I glance down.

Lorenzo: I need your help.

My stomach drops so hard I swear I feel my soul attempt to exit my body. Help? Help with what? Did something happen? Is someone hurt? God is he hurt? Is he being dramatic? Is someone in the hospital? Should I sit down? Why am I standing? 

My brain spirals.

I'm already halfway off the floor, heart thudding, when the second message pops up.

Lorenzo: Meet me at Mercato Trionfale in 10.

A market.

A market.

This man really said "I need your help" like he'd been stabbed and left for dead and then told me to meet him near the tomatoes.

I exhale so aggressively it feels like a complaint.

But I'm already running to the bathroom mirror. For... reasons. Reasons I don't want to unpack. Reasons involving messy blonde hair and Dior Sauvage.

I check my reflection for one second too long. I even apply lip gloss and a bit of blush, which is ridiculous. Then I grab my bag and leave the apartment like someone actually needed help.

The city outside is loud, bright, and messy, with everything smelling faintly of coffee and heat. My sandals slap the pavement as I speed-walk as I hear the everyday sound of Vespas and italian accents. 

The market is alive when I arrive. People shout prices across aisles. Kids weave between baskets of produce. An older woman smacks a man's arm over a bunch of artichokes. It smells of fresh bread and tomatoes. 

I spot him instantly, with his back to me. 

He's in the wine aisle, standing there looking... perfect. One hand in his pocket. The other holding two bottles of expensive wine. 

No urgency. No crisis. No blood. No fainting. No nothing.

Just wine.

He doesn't even see me until I'm right in front of him. Then he turns, casual as ever, smirks at me while he holds up a bottle, and asks:

"Is this like, good wine?"

No hello. No explanation. Nothing.

Just... wine.

I stare at him with the silent rage of someone who thought he was maybe bleeding out half an hour ago.

"That one?" I say. "It's fine."

"Fine good or fine terrible?"

"Fine... mediocre."

He tilts his head, with a smirk plastered on his face. "Mediocre. Interesting."

He holds up another. "And this?"

"Oh, that one's worse."

"Worse than mediocre?"