Minutes go by and I keep scrolling—taking in photo after photo of the two of us smiling and laughing in our old apartment—until I notice a couple in the café making their way to the exit. I immediately survey the area and find that their empty table is in the direct center of the space. It’s not ideal, but it’s doable.
Desperate not to miss my chance, I power walk into the seating area, doing my best to maneuver myself and my Cadillac-sized suitcase to the open table and offering a copious stream ofscuzisandgratzisto everyone I nudge past. Soon enough, I’m only a few feet away. I’m already imagining how moan-inducingly wonderful it’s going to feel to sit in the shade when a mop of blond hair catches my eye from across the square.
Greg?
My heart pounds as a terrified thrill shoots through me. I lean my body to the right, nearly contorting to get a better look. It can’t be him. I know it can’t. But my eyes stay fixed on the silhouette. Tall and lean with his hair sweeping right. Always right. The direction I’d forever push it when we’d sit around talking or lounging in bed. He turns in my direction and the world tilts on its axis. No, wait—that’s me—I’m tilting—no, I’m falling—I’m straight-up toppling into the café table beside me with all the dead weight of a wrecking ball.
Hello, and welcome to my nightmare.
In the span of three seconds, I’m thrown into a state of sensory overload. I feel a hot, wet surface against my now moist chest, a sickening crunching sound fills my ears and all I can see is a startled but intense pair of brown eyes staring back into mine. I stay focused on them for longer than I should before I turn away, instead looking down as I push myself up from the nearly demolished café table that I’m now sprawled across. All the while I keep thinking to myself,That didn’t just happen. Please tell me that didn’t just happen.
Standing up on shaky legs, my still-stunned eyes dart around the café. Every patron is watching me in some configuration of empathy, shock and terror.
Oh yeah, that fully freaking happened.
My hands shift to my shirt, which is now saturated with strong-smelling coffee. I’m only just starting to mentally recalibrate when my gaze returns to my brown-eyed neighbor. He’s standing and sort of hunched over as he assesses his own damage, wiping at the coffee that’s splattered across his gray button-down and khaki shorts. My horrified gaze pans lower as I spot what I can only assume is his laptop on the ground. It now has a gruesome crack down the center of the screen.
If it were ever possible to vanish into a cloud of smoke like the Wicked Witch of the West, minus the cackle, this would be the time. Unfortunately, no dormant magical powers manifest, and I’m left to deal with the aftermath on my own.
“Oh, my god,” I sputter, compelling myself into action as my neighbor’s eyes once again collide with mine. “I’m sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry. Are you okay? Are you burned?”
He’s looking at me like I’m a feral animal who’s foaming at the mouth, and in my somewhat rabid current state, his concern is warranted. He says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I try again apologetically. “Parli inglese?I don’t know how to ask if you’re okay in Italian.”
He levels me with a cold stare.“Stai bene.”
“Stai bene?”I echo.
“It means ‘are you alright?’ in Italian.”
And we officially haveinglese. At least now I’ll know what he’s saying when he threatens me with legal action.
“Oh good. Great,” I tell him. “So are youstai bene?”
“I’m fine.” The tone of his voice, though decided and deep, sounds far from fine. He straightens up completely then, and I’m surprised by how tall he is. The top of my head just reaches his shoulders, and I have to tilt my chin upward to meet his gaze.
“But I broke your laptop. I’ll pay for it to be fixed or replaced.”
What’s the going black-market rate for spleens in Italy? I spent almost every dollar I had on my plane ticket over, and my airways instantly tighten as I try to think of how I can pull the money together for a new computer.
“It’s fine,” the man says, pulling me out of my rising panic. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair, pushing it to the left. His facial hair is the same shade of dark brown, walking the line between scruff and a full beard. It gives off a distinct lumberjack boardroom kind of vibe and I def don’t hate it. Too bad the glare he casts my way leaves very little doubt that he absolutely hates me.
Squatting to pick up his laptop, he takes in the mangled screen and tries not to wince as he attempts to close it. It’s no longer wholly connected, so the top half folds awkwardly without closing all the way. He stands and slides it into an over-the-shoulder case, which is also splattered and stained. Apparently, nothing was spared from my caffeine carnage.
Wanting and needing to smooth the situation out further, I step around the wreckage that is his table and gesture to mine. “Please sit with me. And let me get you a new coffee. It’s the least I can do after destroying your afternoon, if not your whole life.”
At my words, he glances around the café, either looking for an escape or stalling. Both options are understandable. My eyeline slides a little sideways, too, discreetly searching for Greg across the square. He isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. My overactive imagination is a menace, and this humiliating interlude was all for nothing.
I turn to refocus on my neighbor, giving him an innocent yet pleading smile.
Just sit with me, dude. Put me out of my misery.
I’m entirely expecting a staunch refusal when he stiffly says, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be intruding,” I tell him eagerly. “If you don’t sit with me, I’ll torture myself about this for at least a year. Maybe two.”
I almost laugh at myself.Two years?Yeah, right. My overanalyzing ass will be reimagining and reliving this unforgettable horror until the end of time.
