Ok you guys, I’m going to be honest with you.
I was supposed to leave Rome on Friday, but I think the universe decided I needed four more days, because I came down with a little flu bug, the night before (yesterday) I was supposed to leave.
I needed an extra weekend for what? Bed? Pastina? An overnight face mask and more naps? Rest? Listen, I’m not complaining. But I wish I was well enough that I could actually enjoy it.
Beside me: that San Benedetto Iced Tea (with lots of ice), and a mug of pastina. A peppermint essential oil roll-on. 3 crystals. My retainer.
It’s funny because last weekend, I wrote on close friends: “I feel like I’m done with Rome, but I feel like Rome isn’t done with me.”
And as the universe always has it. I went on the cutest date of my life this week. On my last week in Rome. And dare I say - it was the best date that I’ve been on in 3 years. I mean, granted, there hasn’t been a lot of like real dates. Bumble is too risky, everyone that I’m into usually ends up being in a relationship (lol), and I’m also someone who is very cautious in who I’m going to invest time and a conversation with.
I’ve never been someone who enjoys dating just for the sake of it. Just for the free drinks or for the free dinner. If I’m bored - I don’t want to go on Bumble or Hinge and refresh my matches. I want to eat pasta and watch the Summer House reunion (BTW! I CALLED IT LIKE 5 WEEKS AGO THAT WEST WILSON WAS GOING TO BE ANNOYING! AND I WAS RIGHT!)
So there is something to be said in general, about how much I was genuinely excited about going on this date.
I met this man - we’re going to call him “Hot F.” at The Bar one night. And how did I meet him exactly?
Well. Do you remember the night I was about to leave for Toronto in November, and I had come back to Rome for a few days after spending time by the sea? I was hanging outside with the Man at the Front, and his best friend, Hot F. just happened to also be there, hanging out with him that night.
-
“When you come back, I’ll have taken over this place.” The Man at the Front tells me.
It’s three of us who now stand underneath the awning of the bar. A light rain falls, the Man at the Front and his friend who has just joined us, pass a cigarette back and forth to each other.
“And then you can hire Emily to write about it.” His friend nods towards me.
“Emily, no offence, but you’d be the last person I’d hire. You know how many problems this girl has started?”
-
So, a few months later, I notice his friend has added me on Instagram. We chatted a bit that night about writing and poetry. He loves, love. He loves to write. He’s beautiful and tall and charming and funny. He started liking all of my pictures, but mainly my writing posts.
And just as I was at the bar every Saturday, he’d come by every Saturday night, too.
Last week, I was standing outside with the Man at the Front.
“How’s Hot F.?” I ask him. The Man at the Front will often fill me in on their nights out, and all of the girls both him and Hot F. manage to pull. It’s not surprising, they’re both over 6’5 and incredibly handsome, in their own, unique ways.
“You’re his type, you know. Blonde.”
I don’t want the Man at the Front to know that I’m excited about this statement. I cannot go out with his best friend. But I mean…can I?
“I’m not blonde.”
“Ya but you’re…” He rolls his eyes. “You.” He shrugs. I don’t know if Hot F. has said anything to the Man at the Front, or if this is just a random observation. I don’t press, because I don’t need the Man at the Front to go on another lecture to me about all of the men he knows that I’ve been involved with.
An hour later, Hot F. arrives with a few of their friends.
I stay hidden in the corner, scrolling, smoking. Smoking, scrolling, smoking.
“Come say hi, Emily.” The Man at the Front calls me over.
I lean over, and peak my head out from beside a crowd of Romans. “Hi!”
The Man at the Front rolls his eyes. “No, like. A proper hi. Come over here.”
I feel like a child. Or a teenager who doesn’t want to admit she has a crush.
“This is Emily.” Hot F. smiles at me and introduces me to his two friends. “She’s a really good writer.”
I’m annoyed that I’m blushing, and take my usual position, back against the wall. Hot F. leans up against it, next to me. The Man at the Front busies himself with his other friends.
“I didn’t know you were reading what I write.”
“I’ve been reading what you post in your stories. And it’s enough to know that I like the way you write.”
And if you are a man reading this, and if you want, for some reason, to win me over - but don’t know how. It’s actually very simple.
One time, PN had sent me a message saying, “And I like how you write, baby”. I screen-shotted it and made it my wallpaper for 3 months.
So I fold my arms across my chest and smile. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I say to myself in silence.
Fuck.
-
The next evening, I get a DM from a random man at the bar in Italian.
“Saw you out last night. Wanted to tell you that you were beautiful, but I was leaving. Have a good evening.”
I don’t know what comes across me, but I decide to send it to Hot F.
“Thought this was from you.” I attach the screenshot.
“I’m more stealth - like telling you you’re a great writer. Should I be more direct like that though?”
I’m smiling at my phone. And I’m laughing at the word “stealth”.
“No. Your approach is perfect.”
We start to chat. And I forget how refreshing it is to have a normal, funny conversation with a man. He’s witty. He gets it.
“When are you going to be at the bar next?”
“Not for a while. I’m leaving Friday.”
“Really? For how long?”
“I’m not sure this time.”
“Then we should have a writing session before you go.”
“I’d love to.”
“When are you free this week?”
I hesitate. Dates make me nervous. Hang-outs make me nervous, especially with someone who … seems to be checking all the boxes. But I’m leaving. I have absolutely nothing to lose.
“Tomorrow?”
“After dinner?”
“10 pm?”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up.”
-
I’m not nervous for this date, for this hang out, for this meet up. Instead, I’m excited. You know when you just have that feeling? Like you know it’s going to be a good night? That’s how it felt.
I threw on my go-to date night jeans. They’re a light wash, high rise mom jean from Zara that make my butt look insanely perky. I don’t remember when I got them, but every time I put them on, I’m like, “Omg, I have an ass.”
We added a light blue samba, and an eyelet Brandy top thats open, except for the two ties at the top.
At 10:02, he texts me that he’s here. He’s wearing the perfect date night outfit. A white tee, a light-wash denim jacket, and I swear he’s wearing the Italian equivalent of whatever those navy Lululemon joggers are.
I start to laugh when I see him.
“We have a problem.”
“With what?”
“The car. It’s making this buzzing noise. Listen.”
I roll my eyes. There’s always something with these men.
The car, the nonna’s birthday.
“Maybe you have that ear thing that old people get.”
He starts to laugh. “The ringing. I don’t know the English name for it.”
“Tinnitus. I think you just need to drink.”
We start walking to a bar around the corner.
“So. How’s your Italian?” He asks me.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how bad it is.”
“Wait. How long have you been living here for?”
“I’m embarrassed to even say.”
He’s laughing. “Don’t tell me it’s been like, 6 years.”
“No. Just 2. Maybe 2 and a half-ish. But I keep leaving so I don’t count anything as a full year.”
Luckily Hot F. has a good sense of humour and has had a smile on his face since the Tinnitus comment.
“Emily. You’ve lived in Milan. In Genoa. In Florence. And in Rome. How did you not speak any Italian there?”
Now this was an interesting moment. Because I had never shared any of these details with him besides Milan - so, homeboy must have been doing his IG research.
“No, here’s the thing. I can speak it. I can order. I can understand slowly, and I can comprehend. But I just get nervous speaking it. I’m one of those people who, if I’m not immediately good at something - then I don’t even want to attempt at it.”
“But that’s not how learning a language works.” He’s still laughing.
“Ok. My two fatal flaws: I can’t speak Italian and I never got my license. So I actually have no idea what your car is supposed to sound like. I am useless.”
We get to the bar.
“Wait.” He stops. “Is this a good enough place for you? We can also go to the one across the street.”
It’s a Tuesday night so crowds are sparse and scattered.
I shrug. Here’s the thing - if the conversation and company is good, then the ambiance, the food, the drinks - it doesn’t matter. I don’t tell him this, though.
“Of course.”
We sit down. He orders a Gin and Tonic. I pause when the waiter looks at me, because I’m hoping Hot F. will swoop in and order for me, like my other friends will. He does not. So I do my best to order “un bicchiere di pinot grigio”. I only have to repeat myself once, and he tells me (in Italian) that they don’t have Pinot.
“Ah ok.” I do my best Italian accent. “Vermentino.”
The waiter nods and leaves, and Hot F. holds up his fingers. “5 words. I’m impressed. But what happens when they don’t have Vermentino? What’s next on your script?”
I roll my eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “Are you done now?”
He looks at me and smiles. “No.”
His Gin and Tonic comes (ew lol) and so does my wine.
“Let’s write a story.”
“About what?”
“We’ll pick someone around us. And write their back story.”
I laugh. “Ok. I choose her.”
There’s a girl sitting with her friend and her boyfriend at the table next to us. Multiple wine glasses are spread across, and her friend is sitting on top of her boyfriend’s lap. The girl looks less than impressed, her head buried into her phone. She takes long and dramatic drags of her cigarette.
I begin. “She wanted a night out with her best friend. You can tell by the way she’s dressed on a Tuesday - the mini, the over the knee boot. It’s the quintessential girl’s night outfit.”
“Then the friend’s boyfriend came.”
“Are you sure it’s her boyfriend?”
“They’re too comfortable with each other to be anything else.”
“She’s disappointed. She just went through a break up. Or something happened.”
“How can you tell?”
“Read her face. She doesn’t want to be engrossed in conversation with a couple.”
Hot F. smiles. “You’re really good at this.”
Then Hot F. does something no man has ever done before. He takes out a pad of post-it notes and pencil.
“You came prepared.” I tell him.
“This is a business meeting.” He winks.
💚💚💚 Substack is reset t god I can read these again