She pulls herself together. “You are young and beautiful. Embrace it.”
Okay, yeah, she just called me beautiful. I let that settle over me like a warm blanket as I hold her gaze and say quietly, “Thank you.”
She holds up her wine in salute, then sips, and before I can say anything else, the waiter arrives with our lunch.
“It’s crazy to me that tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil can look so gorgeous together on a plate. It’s so simple, yet so perfect.” I take a photo with my phone—yes, I can be that person at times—before I dig in.
“It’s a classic,” she says, and the next few moments consist of us chewing and humming our approval. “Okay,” Marina says, picking up her pen. “What kinds of things do you like?”
I tip my head and think. “Hmm.”
“Architecture? Art and sculpture? Religion? Sports? Philosophy? Food?”
“I mean, that’s quite a list,” I say with a grin. But her dark eyes hold mine, and while her expression is open and friendly, there’s also an edge of seriousness to it. It makes me want to be completely honest with her. I set my fork down, dab at my mouth with my napkin, and set my elbows on the table. Wine in hand, I say to her quietly, “I need help with inspiration. Romantic inspiration. As you know, I write. Mostly books, all romance. And I’ve been struggling lately with…” I let my thought trail off as I inhale slowly, then let it out. “I’ve lost my passion for my work.” I say it quietly, but in earnest, and I can tell by the shift in Marina’s face that she understands exactly what I’m saying.
“Oh,” she says, her pen stilling as she frowns. “I’m sorry.That’s hard.”
I nod. Something about the genuine sympathy in her voice has created a small lump in my throat, and I don’t trust myself to talk in the moment.
“Okay.” She gives one nod of her head. “Passion and inspiration. I have ideas.” And then she’s scribbling away in her little notebook.
“I can almost hear the wheels turning in your head,” I say with a soft laugh.
“I have ideas,” she says again, then sets her pen down, picks her wine back up, and looks at me. She holds her wine up and says, “To getting your passion back.”
I touch my glass to hers, and we sip, watching each other over the rims. There’s something then, something I can’t explain. A feeling? A realization? A knowing? I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels…
Hopeful.
Meals tend to be leisurely in Rome, I’ve noticed. People here aren’t in the same kind of hurry as Americans, New Yorkers in particular. While I do keep an apartment there, I don’t live full-time in New York City—the place everybody’s brain goes to when you mention New York—but people who simply live in the state of New York have similar attitudes. We’re very nice folks. And we are in a hurry, sopleaseget out of our way.
It’s not like that here, and the first few times I walked down a street in Rome, I had to consciously slow my speed. I was zipping past people, getting annoyed when I got stuck behind friends walking three across and leaving no passing room. It didn’t take long for me to understand that it wasn’t them, it wasme, and now I do my best to meander, wander, stroll, to take in my surroundings and breathe the air and fuckingrelax already.
It’s not easy, but I’m working on it.
Marina and I take our time and finish our lunch leisurely. I hit the ladies’ room, and when I return, find that Marina has paid the bill. I give her a look, and she just laughs that husky laugh that I have already decided I adore.
“I have a tour to give,” she tells me as we step outside. “So, I must go.” The air-conditioning in the back of the restaurant was lovely, and now I feel like I’ve walked into a wall of heat.
“But I just made you eat,” I say, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.
Her smile is gorgeous, it’s official. “It’s okay. I don’t eat as much with tour groups I don’t know. Serena is an exception. I feel comfortable with her.”
“Easy to do.”
A nod. “Okay, can you find your way back?” She points to my left. “I have to go this way.” She points right.
“I’m totally fine.”
“Good. I’ll text you tonight with some ideas and we’ll get to work for you, yes?”
“Sounds perfect.”
There’s a slightly awkward moment where she seems like she’s going to hug me, thinks better of it, then overrules herself and suddenly, I’m in her arms. Her scent almost distracts me from the feel of her body against mine. Almost. And then it’s over.
“Ciao,” she says softly, stepping backward.
I give her a little wave, and she turns away, and I indulge myself by watching her as she moves down the cobblestone street, the gentle sway of her hips, the way the heavy and hot breeze lifts her hair just enough to rearrange the ends. She’s attractive even from the back.
