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“Can’t complain.” He smiles.
I study his face, trying to find him handsome. He’s not unattractive. He has kind eyes. Long hair. That I’m here because I’m a hipster poet look.
Not my usual type, but, hey, when in Rome…
“Do you know what bacio means?” I lean forward enough to show off my cleavage.
His green eyes flit to my chest. Then back to my lips. “How about you show me, bella?”
Flirting. Great. Love it. It’s cheesy, yes, but he’s trying.
That’s what matters.
I bring my hand to his cheek and I kiss him.
No. It’s all wrong. He tastes like hops and malt and the fact he isn’t Matteo.
I pull back and force a smile.
The American looks at me like he’s waiting for me to invite him back to my hotel.
I close my eyes and will my date to turn into the man I want.
He doesn’t.
So I answer a fake phone call, excuse myself, and go home to work through my adrenaline rush alone.
At the Air BnB, Elena is on the balcony, with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
In her chic cream vest and trouser shorts, she looks like an influencer posing for a fake candid of her European vacation.
The Real Roman Holiday? Think I’ll Meet a Gorgeous Princess and Kill Her?
Not that she’d get that joke. Elena has no knowledge of film, TV, or theater. Not even Shakespeare. (Which I respect. Why do Americans read so much Shakespeare anyway? Would it kill us to read a play from the last 100 years?)
She finishes her cigarette and saunters inside. Leans against the counter, right next to the thick Manilla envelope with my name on it (metaphorically, of course). “Fresh from the drop site. And it’s fat. It must be juicy.”
Probably. The simple ones are usually a few sheets of paper. The complex jobs require more information. Weaknesses, likes, dislikes, instructions (anything from “make it look like a suicide” to “write cheaters deserve death in lipstick on his stomach”. Don’t fuck around on a vengeful person with money. It’s not pretty).
But why do I have another job already? “How’s yours?” I ask.
She makes a so-so gesture. “I’m working on him.” She motions to the cell on the kitchen table, open to Instagram.
Ah, the work of the modern assassin. Sure, she might be looking at babes in bikinis between surveilling the target, but she’s certainly focused on the job.
Unlike me, Elena is no-nonsense about work. Get in, slit throats, get out.
I just can’t help my theatricality. Sure, I can keep it in check for a few weeks, but if I don’t give it an outlet, it takes control.
Shakespeare was right about one thing. All the world’s a stage and men (and women) are merely players.
Heartless assassin, loving girlfriend, witty bestie, whatever. If there’s a part, I play it with flair. That way I’m always in control.
That way, I never get heart.
These thoughts of Matteo—
They’re not because I miss him. Or because I’m not sure where adoring lover ends and I begin. They’re not because he’s the only person who ever tried to see the real me.
