I’ll see you Saturday at sundown at the entrance to the palazzo.
Fondly,
James
With foolishly optimistic hope or belief. James. Maybe I’ll just stand his ass up. Not show. Or show like five minutes late. Because I really want to see the Palace.
P.S. Your comments on the students’ papers are poignant and thought provoking. Next time, you do not need to write an entire page of feedback for each student.
A warm sensation crawls up my neck upon reading his praise. I give my cheek a smack.Pull yourself together. Of course you did a good job. You don’t need a man to tell you that. Especially not a man who barely tolerates you.
I hold the note so close that it would touch my nose if another soft night breeze blew in through the open door. I study the map with my lips pressed together. He even drew the little fountain at the center of the piazza with real water droplets coming out and a woman reading a book on its outer ledge. I squint and see that there’s a title on the book. Oh, Lord Voldemort. This man did not draw a cartoon of a woman reading Harry Potter beside the fountain.
Shit. I tuck the note under the pillow beside me and force myself to focus on anything but the present. I think about my next email to Tammy, how I’m going to focus only on what I’ve discovered here, with the exception of one note-writing, pain-in-the-ass professor. I wouldn’t even know what to write about him.
A pang of guilt followed by a heavy wave of grief hits me at the thought of the postcard tucked snugly between the pages of the novella on my desk. I’m used to these waves and how they come at the most random of times—brought on by a song, a smell, the sound of laughter. They used to crash over me and make me struggle for air, but now I’ve learned to body surf them with only mild injury.
“There’s nothing to write, Ma. Nothing to say.”
The crickets chirp back.
I turn my mind to safer pastures. I think about the impressive tower of glass I’ll be working in come fall, or the first pair of Jimmy Choo Romy 85s I’m gonna buy to click across the marble floors of its lobby. I can almost hear that sound. I think about Ethan groveling on his knees while I wear those pumps, telling him not to get his Chapstick on them. I think about my dad’s pride when I meet him across the table as an equal but opposing force to his successful firm. I do not think about impeccable penmanship or carefully crafted treasure hunt maps delineating my mother’s secret art trove that she hid in a life she never shared. Nope. I do not.
And I certainly do not read the note four more times before drifting back to sleep.
VENTUNO
Ava
I should have started at Aldo’s café.
The heat has bounced back on the city like a bungee cord released in a tug-of-war. And I have walked right out of the fug into a butcher shop. From heat to meat. There are legs hanging from hooks with actual fur and hooves. If I were in my dream heels, I’d head-bump a slab of mystery animal that hovers over my head. It’s like a Christmas tree in here, decorated with meat ornaments. And the smell—I’m reminded of the time in high school I had to stick my head out the window during a dissection lab.
I really should have started at Aldo’s.
“Buongiorno, Signorina.”
It’s impossible not to smile at the man who has just popped up from behind the glass showcase filled with sausages and otherunknown bits. Even though the white apron covering his impressive paunch is covered in blood. I half expect him to start singing something fromSweeney Todd.
“Buongiorno,” I try. “Parli inglese?” I cut right to the chase. No use stumbling through my shitty Italian while the threat of a meat avalanche hovers just around the bend. What a headline.Young Lawyer Buried by Beef Abroad.
“Certo. Would you like to try my meat?” he asks, the smile growing a bit wider beneath his rosy cheeks. He holds up a toothpick with a slice of what might be carpaccio dangling from it.
It’s too early in the morning to try this man’s meat.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell him. And there goes the smile. His lips turn down and puppy dog eyes doesn’t even begin to cover what’s happening across from me.
I step forward, hands up. “Okay. Certo. I’ll try your meat,” I stammer, trying to make up for what was obviously an insult.
His bushy gray brows lift and his eyes widen again.
“Perfetto. Vieni qui,” he gestures me over with a huge gloved hand. “Questo è cavallo.”
I take the toothpick tentatively and angle my head for a nibble. He purses his lips and shakes his head.
“Mangia,” he says with a flourish of hand movement.
So no nibbling in Italy then. I shove the whole piece of meat in my mouth.
