how to disappear

I needed to come back. I needed to be reminded of something bigger.

July in Rome always feels like the city is on fire. It’s impossible to leave the house until after the sun goes down. The streets and piazzas are full of tourists during the day, who move as slow as molasses. I’ve learned my limits after hallucinating during my first summer here, and need to be inside with endless espresso and pasta (or pizza) al tonno until at least 8 PM.

When I decide to venture out of the apartment, Franco takes care of me. Franco always takes care of me. A very generous pour of house white (always on the house) and supplì and whatever pizza he tells the chefs in the kitchen to make.

I seat myself down in front of the fan that’s blowing the humid air throughout this back alleyway. Franco thought my name was “Amelie” for the longest time - and I never corrected him.

It’s French, it’s chic.

The wooden table is always wobbly on the cobblestone, but I don’t mind. The wine is cold, the wine tastes like water - and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Rome will always be a lantern for you.”

I’m home.

-

It’s a strange concept - isn’t it? Talking to an ex lover about another ex lover.

I had sent the Man At The Front a voice note last fall.

“Remember when you told me that men don’t want to date me because they’re scared that I’ll leave? Well, I’m staying in Toronto and my ex still doesn’t want to date me.”

We’re all one, I think. The sum of two people. The sum of two souls.

“But with PN…” I trail off. “He loved what I did - but he didn’t compete with me for it. I think he would have let me shine. And maybe that would have led to resentment at some point, but I think, if we were really happy - then he would have let me stay happy.”

“The ones we love aren’t always the ones that are good for us.”

I roll my eyes. “Well. I’m just thinking about how quickly it can all change.”

I let myself rest my head on his shoulder. But he’s right.

The Man at the Front has always been right.

-

“I just want to let it go.” I close my eyes, and lean my head up against the wall. I’m at a different bar. His new bar. But it’s always the stale heat. The cigarette smoke. It does something to me. Makes everything feel hazy, but makes everything feel more alive.

“I always told you. You’re doing something that the world needs.”

I open my eyes at him and smile. Almost 4 summers have gone by. I’m now in my thirties. And he’s closer to being 50, but I won’t tell him that I’m rounding up. That’s half of a life. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the time he’s lost and the time he’s had.

I wonder what he’s thinking in this moment, exactly. If he’s slightly annoyed by my presence, or slightly surprised. I’d like to think I added a bit of entertainment to his otherwise routine of a Wednesday evening.

“Smoke?” He takes out a cigarette.

I nod.

“Light?”

I nod, again.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“With what?” I play dumb.

“You forget that I know you. You’ve been gone for almost a year. And there’s always something written all over your face.”

He’s always been perceptive, and we’ve always understood each other. I tell myself it’s because he’s an artist, but deep down - I know it’s because there’s more.

I sigh. “It started off a bit controlling in the fall. Controlling, but I’d never see him. Then we ended in the winter, and it was just … sad. Because it wasn’t like there weren’t feelings there , but it just felt like he was always making excuses as to why. “You can go to Rome at anytime and I’d have no say in it.” Then we tried again. I got a Canadian phone number for him - because it was going to make him feel better -

He lets out a laugh and shakes his head.

“He didn’t want you to leave.”

“But he also did nothing to make me want to stay.”

“So he wants to live a life, and you want to live a life - but it’s two different lives. And I think, maybe he thinks - to make something work, you have to fit into his. But he knows you won’t do that.”

I nod. “I don’t fit in back home. And I’m better for it. But I know that I don’t fit in here, either. And ironically, that’s what keeps me going. Knowing that it’s all good, but knowing that it’s all temporary.”

“Oh, Emily - come on. I’ve talked to you about fitting in. You can’t -

“Listen to other people. I know. And thank god I don’t. But it’s just interesting. My whole life - I’ve built it on this basis of freedom. It’s everything. And it’s what everyone loves about you in the beginning. And then they start to resent you for it in the end.”

Something in his face changes. And I’m transported back to that couch in the early spring. It was when he decided. When he decided that my sadness mirrors his sadness. That my loneliness mirrors his loneliness.

He sighs. “Do you remember what I told you about this?”

I nod. It was his last shift at the bar in March. I had just come back from a 3 - month stint in Milan. The Man at the Front told me I romanticize things too much, but I knew PN would understand me.

“Now the right person - he’ll understand that…that need to be free. That desire to explore different cities and to have new experiences. And the feelings he has for you, if it’s real love … it won’t change. It won’t matter where you are, or where you live. He’s always going to carry those feelings for you. Whether he wants to or not.”

And at the end of the day. We are just the sum of two people.

That’s all we are. And that’s all we ever will be.

The sum of two people.