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I mean, how crazy is it that I found Marcello after being in Italy for such a short period of time? There have to be other men like him around here. It might just be a cultural thing.
I choose a clingy red dress to wear with a pair of nude heels and a gold necklace. Seeing myself in such mature, distinguished clothes is still a shock to me sometimes. Who even am I? When did I become an adult woman?
I still practice basic expressions and conversation starters with myself in the mirror before I leave. I don’t have a group of vivacious, bright-eyed women to draw attention to me or bring me out of my shell. It’ll be much harder for me to do, but I know that if I can get out of my own head for a night, I might find myself with someone evenbetterthan Marcello. Maybe he would even stay with me through the night and eat breakfast with me.
Imagine how lucky I would be.
When I leave the hotel, I can feel eyes on me as my heels click on the marble tiles. I haven’t felt particularly susceptible to male attention since I had kids, and it takes me a moment to compose myself. It’s been years since I felt attractive to anybody, and the concept of my sexuality suddenly being switched back on intimidates me a bit.
It takes me a moment to think back on the last time I felt like I deserved to be noticed. The last time I felt this beautiful was, ironically, the day I met Marcello at the café. I was a different woman then – younger, more naïve, and definitely much more hopeful than I am now. But I’ve grown up since then, and I like to think that I carry my maturity with me in the way I move.
I make small talk with the cab driver, at least as much as I can in Italian before I begin to falter. I figure I’d better not let my ego get the best of me and embarrass myself. Many people here speak English, and who am I trying to impress anyway?
The memory of Marcello’s accented speech flashes through my mind, and a warmth forms in my stomach as I let it affect me. His voice was one of the things about him that has stuck with me the most throughout the years.
We arrive at the same bar that I’d been at that fateful night, and my guts twist as I walk up to the front door. It all looks exactly the same as it did back then, and I’m surprised at how many details I remember from five years ago. It smells the same as well, and I’m transported back to the night I’d spent listening to my friends vent about their failed love lives.
I guess I can’t really judge them for that.
I make my way up to the outdoor bar, admiring the artwork on the walls throughout the building. I hadn’t taken the time to really look at any of it when I was here, and most of it is actually quite morbid in a poetic way. It feels fitting, like love can’t exist without carnage.
My old spot is filled at the bar when I get there, so I take a table at the very edge of the patio that overlooks the treetops leading to the ocean. There’s a mild breeze coming off the water, and I inhale deeply as I allow all of the tedium and stress of my daily life to dissolve into the atmosphere.
A young bartender walks over to take my order, and I notice the way his eyes shift to my breasts for a split second as he writes it down. I’m overwhelmed by the attention, even from somebody that I wouldn’t typically give the time of day. I blush slightly, and a warm pink color spreads over the exposed part of my chest.
Damn it. Now everybody knows how awkward I am.
I scroll through my social media, catching up on everything I could have possibly missed in the last twenty-four hours. My mother has sent at least eleven photos of my boys playing on the swing set that she has behind her house, and I carefully admire each one. I already miss the boys with my whole heart, but I know that in the long run, this is the proper choice.
The young bartender returns to my table with my drink, avoiding eye contact as much as he possibly can. It’s sweet, but I’m still getting used to the way it feels to beseenby men. Since I had my boys, I’ve felt as if I have a maternal aura around me that all men can detect that makes me completely undateable. I’d given up the idea of dating quite a while ago, partially because I couldn’t get any dates but also because I’d held out the false hope that Marcello would attempt to contact me to profess his longing for me once more.
As I gaze out over the edge of the patio, I wonder to myself what I realistically think he’s been doing with his life. I never even thought to ask what he did for a living. Is he a doctor? Is he a mechanic? Is he a drug dealer?
His demeanor was so mysterious that he could have told me he was anything, and I would have believed him. He was so confident in everything that he did that I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that every move was rehearsed and planned out down to the way he spoke.
Either way, his act worked.
I think a little harder and realize that he could very well be married to a beautiful Italian woman who has given him children that he knows and loves as his own. The thought makes my stomach turn violently until I’m able to collect myself again. Why do I have such a visceral reaction to the concept of him being happy? Is it because I’ve formed an entire inner thought life with him as the main character?
It’s possible.
Even though I pride myself on not allowing my physical features to define who I am, the idea of a woman who is significantly more beautiful takingmyplace with the man I’m obsessed with makes me nauseated. When I imagine my worst fear, she looks like a tall, lithe, olive-skinned woman with waist-length black hair and perfect, pouty lips. She’s the woman everyone wants, and she pretends that she doesn’t know it. Throw in some a unique, technical hobby like stained glass cutting or pole dance, and she’s the antithesis of me.
Before I allow myself to melt down completely over a passing thought, I take a long sip of my drink. It’s so smooth and sweet that I lose myself in it for a moment. I have no kids to rush home to, no husband texting me incessantly, and no work emails piling up from this morning. I’m choosing to live for myself tonight, and whatever happens will be a testament to my temporary freedom.
ChapterEight
MARCELLO
Iapproach the nightclub with hesitation as I hear the music blaring from outside. I stand across the street from it for a bit, watching two girls attempt to carry each other to a car down the street as one of them vomits on her dress.
I know better than to try and help, so I walk over to the front door and flash my ID to the bouncer, who promptly lets me in. He’s never seen me here before, but he’s clearly seen my face because the way he scans me up and down tells me that he knows something about who I am.
The outside of the club might have been run down and dilapidated, but it could have never prepared me for what the inside would be like. The second I step foot into the main bar area, I can feel my shoes sticking to the floor. I’m disgusted and irritated that I wore my more expensive shoes here, but it’s not like I can’t afford to replace them.
The scent of beer and body spray fills the air around me, and I’m reminded of the parties I used to attend in my friends’ basements when we were nineteen. With low lighting and a questionable film over the surface of the bar, I would pay good money to see what this place looks like under a blacklight. Maybe it would look better than it does now.
As I wander through the crowd, I feel people brushing past me on all sides, one of which rubs her questionably wet arm on my suit jacket. I want to strangle Tommaso for insisting that we come here when there are multiple clubs throughout the city that would let me in based solely on my reputation. The next time he suggests goinganywhere,I’m shooting him down.
