Page 103 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

When they reached the square and saw the people gathered at tables and around the fountain who would soon bear witness, Aroldo started to shake. Or was it Harold?

He quietly invited Harold to take a hike, then glanced up at the balcony and pointed. “That’s theirs.”

A fresh wave of chills hit him again. Every hope of living a full life rested on this moment. “Leave burn marks,” he said to himself. “Leave burn marks.”

Shaking the last of Harold away, Aroldo glanced around again, then nodded at the sharply dressed Spina, who looked like he was ready to take the stage at Carnegie Hall.

Aroldo fished the phone from his pocket, connected it to the speaker, and pressed play. Out came the beginnings of Peter Gabriel’s song, “In Your Eyes,” first the synthesizer, then the silky drum rhythm. It wasn’t loud enough, so he turned it up. And he turned it up again.

People started turning their heads.

Hey Duo, how about this for burn marks?

Aroldo cranked the volume and then raised the JBL boom box over his head. Timing it with Peter Gabriel, Spina stepped forward, opened his mouth, and let loose an extraordinary vocal, perfectly capturing Gabriel’s lyrics, his voice easily topping the volume of the speaker.

Within seconds, people had pulled out phones and were snapping shots and capturing videos. Aroldo stood tall and proud, a man—no, a warrior—here to reclaim love.

Spina sang louder, rattling light posts, shaking the bloody walls of the city around him with his vibrato, pumping Aroldo’s chest with so much voracious ferocity that he thought he might soon levitate off the ground.

Beside him, the opera singer gave everything he had, like he was calling upon the eternal love of his deceased wife.

Aroldo watched the balcony and windows, hoping for movement. Tiny, puny little Harold crept back in, and he heard his dad’s voice in his head. You unoriginal dipshit, Harold. Do you know how many times people have recreated this stupid scene? Hell, you’re probably not the first buffoon to pull it on Alice! She’s probably not even in the building!

“Stop it,” Aroldo whispered. Or maybe shouted.

Mid-note, Vittorio stopped and looked over.

“No, not you,” Arold said, dismissing his interruption with a wave of the hand. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

Vittorio jumped right back in, and Aroldo raised the volume on the boom box even louder, praying to his God and all gods that his strawberry love would appear and realize that she was nothing without him.

A shadow, movement.

The balcony door cracked open. Out into the warm air, four floors above the square, came his destiny, a T-shirt and shorts and a red mess of hair.

Her mouth fell open, and Aroldo’s heart swelled with love.

There was no place for Harold here.

Aroldo, this is yours.

Your win.

The sight of her gave Spina extra steam, and he wrang every bit of soul from the song. Aroldo simply stared up with loving eyes, stretching his arms higher, the speaker a lightning rod that would guide them back together.

She came to the railing and watched, her mouth still open.

And he thought he saw a smile, a flicker of one. He said to himself, “She’ll be mine by nightfall.”

Harold, no, Aroldo let the song play through, knowing his love was filling every one of her cells, reconstructing her.

After the last note, she called down to him, “Harold, I can’t believe you.”

He stepped forward and opened his arms like a gladiator in the Colosseum ready to accept his prize from the empress. “I love you, Alice. With all of me. And I don’t want to be friends. I want all of you, and I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you.”

Aroldo had forgotten about the crowd till he heard an audible gasp. He looked around and discovered at least fifty people staring at him, watching the scene. Cameras out. Some women holding their hearts. He’d be all over the socials.

Alice held up a finger. “I’ll be right down.”