it's getting warm again

It’s cold, but it’s getting warmer. Maybe by 1 or 2 degrees. Maybe the sun is misleading, but it does feel warmer. I keep the curtains open in my apartment, always. It lets the light in as I type away this letter. My legs are crossed on the sofa, I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. My day 3 or 4 curls fall down towards the middle of my back. My Fendi glasses balance on the bridge of my nose. Justin Bieber’s YUKON plays on the projector. My first coffee of the day sits on my marble living room table top.

It’s February, and my universe feels lighter. My world feels lighter.

It all feels beautiful again.

-

Towards the end of Summer 2024, I found myself getting bored in Rome. Bored and restless is never a good combination for a Gemini, or, rather, it is the best combination, because it seems to ignite something in me. I needed a switch up from the usual bar, I was getting tired of my own reputation.

There was a bar in the middle of one of my favourite piazzas that would let you bring your Aperol Spritz to the fountain across from it. The Romans would gather around this fountain after they finished work for the day. It would be full of Italians drinking their Perronis and smoking their cigarettes. Playing cards, reading in the sun. Gossiping, starring. All of it.

The owner knew who I was. Every Saturday, I’d stop by and get a spritz, and sit beside the fountain before taking myself to Franco’s for pizza.

He was older. A burly man, a stocky man. Heavy eyebrows. Bald. He wasn’t Italian, he was Armenian, I think. But he watched. He had an eye on everyone. And that’s the key to understanding Rome. It’s beautiful, it’s always beautiful, on the surface. But you have to watch for what lies beneath.

On this particular evening in July, I decide to switch things up. After my two martinis, I leave the usual bar and walk on over to the bar beside the fountain. The owner and 2 men are sitting outside. Watching. Observing.

“Still open?” I ask.

The owner looks amused. “What can I get you?”

“Suprise me.”

I sit down at a table next to the two men. I’m in a matching set: a black linen tank top and a black mini skirt. It’s past 10 pm and 32 degrees.

My confidence grew from the last time I sat at a bar alone. I knew the game, I understood the game. I knew how to lead - “I’m a writer.” It lessens any pity they might have towards you, and increases their curiosity and understanding.

That’s why she’s alone.

He brings over a clear coloured drink with a cherry on top and pulls up a chair beside me.

“You look like you’re in your head about something.”

He hands me a cigarette.

“Well. I’m a writer. That’s why.”

“Ah. A writer. About what?”

“Love. Death. All of it.”

It’s a conversation that Rome made me love to have.

“The Italian men.” He laughs and shakes his head. “What happened? Married?”

“Well. Not technically married. But had a family. You know that bar up the street?”

His face changes from amused to a bit tense. He nods.

“He worked there. And it happened so long ago. But I know that every time I walk in, every time I’m there - they just see him. And I’m just…tired of being seen as his.”

“Have you tried forming relationships with other people at the bar?”

I smile. “Well. Something like that.”

-

On the evening before this full moon, I have a dream that I am 2 weeks pregnant. The father is a bartender around the corner from me.

Everyone is there. Including my mother.

“I’m keeping it.” I tell whoever is listening. I’m excited. I’m confident. I’m sure. Who knows if I’m with the baby’s father. But I know that I am keeping the child

“Are you sure?” They are all confused. “It’s still early on…”

-

I finish my drink and the owner finishes his cigarette. He tells me he’s 47. I think it’s a lie, I think that he’s older. But I won’t pry.

“I’m closing. But you’re welcome to stay.”

I watch him as he cleans the glasses. Wipes down the counter tops.

“You really got to get out of that head of yours.”

“I can’t. It’s what makes me a good writer.”

He laughs. We exit the bar, and we walk up the street. We stop at the street light. And this could be simple, it could be very simple, in somebody else’s world. He could wave a cab over for me. And I could call it a night. But instead, we both stand at the street light. It’s red. I won’t wait for the signal. My world is different than everybody else’s. I am not everybody else. So I turn to face him and pray that he understands me, that he understands my world. He does. He pulls me in towards him and kisses me. He gets a cab, and I slide into the backseat. We kiss in the back of the cab, on the way home to his apartment.

When we arrive at his place, he showers. I wait for him in his bed. He tells me that I am beautiful. That I am so beautiful.

My hair is loose, it falls down towards the middle of my back.

In the morning, he asks if I want him to make me a coffee. I tell him no, that I’m already calling a cab. He looks surprised, but he doesn’t pry.

He walks me to his door. “Don’t make good choices.” He tells me with a grin.

“I never really do.” I answer him back and laugh.

I walk outside. The sun is shining. It’s almost 40 degrees.

It’s another day in Rome.

It’s another day in my world.