Make sure to drink all the wine for me!
Ramin
I can’t drink all the wine, I would die!
I will drink a lot of it though.
Farzan
Don’t die
Everything good otherwise?
Ramin sipped his tea. It was weak. The bags were probably expired. He needed to get some at the grocery store.
Everythingwasgood otherwise. Right? Except for the existential crisis of running into his old crush at a gelateria in a one-in-a-billion (or maybe even trillion) coincidence. Part of him wanted to tell his friends about seeing Noah. They probably remembered him, at least a little bit, even if they hadn’t been friends with him. But what was there to say? It wasn’t like he’d ever see Noah again anyway.
Ramin
Everything is good
Arya
Have you found any dick yet?
Ramin snorted. Trust Arya to ask the important questions. But he couldn’t get any dick until his suitcase arrived. In addition to condoms and lube, it also had his enema bulb for prepping. And besides, he wanted to get used to Italy before he ventured out in search of dick.
An image of Noah popped into his mind, more specifically the front of Noah’s jeans, but Ramin shoved that away. No, nope, not goingthere. He was here to reinvent himself. Get under as many men as he could.
Not rekindle a twenty-year-old crush that had never gone anywhere back then and was certainly not going to go anywhere now.
Ramin
Not yet. Will report back.
One thing Ramin had learned about Italy in his research: Italians liked to eat dinner late. Really late. Like, seven o’clock wasearlyto them. Any restaurant that was open before then was one for tourists, not locals, and Ramin wanted to live like a local.
He made it to six forty-five before his growling stomach got the best of him.
The late afternoon sun turned the streets golden as he stepped onto the sidewalk, making sure the gate closed behind him like Francesca and Paola had instructed. He reached for his phone to look up restaurants but stopped himself. He was Interesting New Ramin. He didn’t need Google reviews. He took things as they came. He did as the locals did.
He turned left and started walking.
His apartment was in Porta Nuova, a cute neighborhood north of the city center, but then again, were any Italian neighborhoodsnotcute? Vespas and Fiats zipped by on the street. Bicycles weaved around and between them.
On every street he passed, folks were closing up shops, pulling down metal shutters, locking doors, turning off lights. On every sidewalk, people sat around little black metal tables sipping spritzes and eating olives off toothpicks, enjoying an aperitivo before dinner. Restaurants were getting ready to open, too: servers flapped out tablecloths, set places, polished silverware.
Another thing Ramin had read: The best way to find a good restaurant was to find one where the menuwasn’tin English.
His stomach growled at him again. He was supposed to beInterestingNew Ramin, notIndecisiveNew Ramin.
He rounded the piazza and turned onto a narrow street that curved to the right, obscuring the other end. On the left, a patio caught his eye, lit with fairy lights. A line was already forming by the door, but most of the people waiting looked like actual locals. At least, he didn’t see any pairs of tennis shoes.
“Tavolo per uno?” Ramin asked when he finally made it to the host stand, manned by a black-haired twink with a strong tan and an even stronger nose.
“Sì, signor, fuori o dentro?”
“Uh…”
