“I have no idea who this guy is,” she thinks as he wraps his arms around her. But she is in Italy and she doesn’t speak Italian, even though he keeps babbling in her right ear as the embrace stretches into uncomfortable territory. Twice she tries to pull away, but he either 
doesn’t feel it or he misinterprets and hangs on to her tighter. She can see the green and black graffiti on the wall in front of her that reads, “Succhiare uno dei grandi,” and she imagines it means something it doesn’t, anything to get her mind off of his hands on her. Then she realizes he is so much stronger than her, and she finally relaxes into it, anything to help out her aching back, which pains her because of the position she was in, the fight position. But as she relaxes into his arms, her back pain eases up, almost as if her body is calling her mind a loser. Amazingly enough, she doesn’t even think to scream.
“Maybe this is just how people do things in Italy,” she thinks as he continues to speak what sounds like they might be lovely phrases into her right ear. She doesn’t know it, but the tourists across the street have begun to take pictures of the two of them, locked in their absurd embrace. If they only knew she was engaged to be married to Julio, a Spaniard with an insane jealous streak. For the second time during this trip, she realizes she is relieved he is not around, but she doesn’t stop to analyze what that means for her and for her future. She realizes at the same time that this guy with her, while he looks very fit on the outside, is hiding a bit of a paunch that she can feel against her lower stomach. She isn’t judging, just observing.
“Questa ragazza vuole me,” he thinks as he steps off of the trolley car onto the Via della Conciliazione, a trip he makes daily on his way to the national art museum. No, he doesn’t go there to look at the amazing artwork, even though he does admit it is amazing. He goes there to check out the models who pose in the streets for the artists who come and go, setting up shop, then leaving as quickly as they came, with canvases tucked under arms or put into satchels. Occasionally he will pretend to be one of them, and wear his tam, but not always. Today is one of the “not” days, when he will just go to ogle the tanned flesh on display. Most of the models, he knows, are not even Italian, as he hears them go on and on during the shoots, in melodic languages he wishes he knows. While he is fluent in English, they hardly ever speak it, and he imagines what it would be like if they did. Before he can make his way to the museum, however, out of nowhere this girl shows up. She is radiant in a way that none of the models can quite capture, and she does it naturally. He aches to be near her.
His smile has been known to make women faint at the sight of it, or at least that is what he would have the ladies believe. He is coming from the gym, but he was not working out, or at least not that hard. He only owns the membership in order to see girls in spandex whenever he wants. Sure, he pretends to work out, and if you were to walk into the gym while he’s there, he even looks like he’s working up a sweat, but that is never the case. He sweats, but for different reasons. The trolley he takes from the gym to the art museum is the same one he takes on the same day at the same time, and it is always half full of tourists. So, when he steps off it, he is not surprised to see the tourists milling about, but that is when he sees her. He catches her eye and smiles.
“There’s no way she’s Italian,” he thinks as he looks at her clothing choice. Her flowered-print dress is so last season, but on her it looks charming. It also allows him to see her legs, and he is in heaven. He is definitely a leg man. Her being a foreigner also works to his advantage. Often he can spot a tourist a mile away, and one thing they have in common is their ignorance of Italian customs, so he approaches this one. Her smile wavers a little, becomes uncertain, but remains on her face. He gestures towards her, as if he knows her, as if they are old friends, and then she is in his arms. The smell of her takes his breath away. He knows other tourists are watching, and he wonders what they think of the public display of affection. He realizes she is pushing against him rather insistently, but he pretends he cannot feel it and pulls her in closer. Before too long, he feels her body give way. That’s when he knows he has her, so he keeps whispering sweet words into her ear that he knows she does not comprehend. It’s okay. It’s the tone that matters, and his is a precious one.
“This has gone on long enough,” she thinks, her back starting to bother her once again, and she recalls a course in self-defense she took five years before that she thought she would never use. In fact, she has never had cause to use it until now, but she takes full advantage of her returning memory. Using his own back as leverage, she presses herself full against him, lifts her left leg, and slams her heel down hard on his right foot. They are both wearing sandals, but her heel is much more well protected than his toes, and he howls out in pain, releasing her instantly and dropping to his knees. The tourists behind her are now gawking, and she can almost hear them posting their pictures to Facebook, with the title, “Crazy couple fighting near the trolley.” At this moment she doesn’t even care. She removes her sandals, tucks them in her purse that had been on her back, and takes off back down the Via della Conciliazione, lost in a city of thousands. They never see each other again.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 