so. what's next?
are we in the finale or in the premiere?
Oh my angels. Oh my friends.
It’s Sunday evening, and I had a bit too much summer today. The tiny heatstroke headache that comes after two spritzes, 5 hours of sun, and a moment where I realized I didn’t eat lunch.
But, I’m lying under a soft white sheet. The window is open, I hear kids playing soccer in the piazza outside. I still smell like sunscreen and my lips still taste like saltwater. My hair is in a loose bun, because I am preserving these beach waves for as long as humanely possible.
We have taken his advice. We are officially writing by the sea. Writing on the Riviera. It’s kind of giving the season 2 premiere of Emily In Paris where she ends up going to Cannes alone. And it’s making me think - are we in the premiere or in the finale? Or are they really just one in the same?
Well, I’ll be honest with everyone. I had a really hard time leaving Rome last week. A really hard time. I walked up and down my favourite tree lined street one too many times. And I gave everyone at the bakery one too many hugs.
“Emily! What are we going to do without you for a month?” The owner asks me.
I really don’t know, I tell him. But mostly, I don’t know what I’m going to do without them.
“I’ll text you.” Our friend in the bodycon dress tells me as we hug for the 11th time.
“Everyday. So it’s like nothing has changed.” I’ve ordered my iced latte to go, and have my baguette in bag. That baguette and straw bag have been the focal point of many photoshoots.
I told my friend - to me, one of the biggest successes in my life is being able to create a community. Creating a home, and creating meaningful relationships in a country where you know absolutely no one.
Taking chances, and opening our hearts. Anything is possible.
Outside our Bar, I look up at the man in the front and smile. “I think you’re going to miss me when I leave.”
“You know, you keep saying this. And I’m starting to think that you’re the one who’s going to miss this place.”
-
“Okay. I’m having a hard time leaving.” I tell Past Newsletters. “Last year, I couldn’t wait to get out. I was counting down the days. And now, I’m holding on to every moment.”
“It’s because you changed. And Rome was different to you this time. But this is good, you know. To get out of Rome, to see different places, to be around different people.”
Being told you that changed is the biggest compliment, especially when you’ve noticed those changes in yourself. And there’s something special about other people noticing those changes within you, too. Even if they’ve only known you for two springs, two summers, two falls, and one winter.
“You think I changed?” I can’t help but smile.
“Yes. And look how happy you are about that. When I was young -” he changes his choice of words for whatever reason. “You know, in the past - if someone told me that I was different, I’d be offended. I’d think - what? There was something wrong with who I was?”
“I think being told that you’ve changed is the biggest compliment. You want to evolve, you want to grow. That’s the point of life.”
“Change and growth.” He nods his head. “It ties into what we were talking about last week…about that feeling of home.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that conversation.” I tell him. “And how you said home for you was acceptance. But don’t you think always searching for acceptance gives someone else the power to your happiness? Because for a lot of people, it’s the the ones closest to them that won’t ever give them that. The I see you, the I understand you, and the I love you for it all. And then you spend your life chasing, searching, trying to to fill something.”
He goes quiet. “Well, I guess that’s when the definition of home becomes subjective. But I’ll tell you something I’ve learned. That feeling of home, and of acceptance. You know who is the only person that can give it to me?”
“You.”
“Exactly.” He smiles.
Memories of my first year philosophy course seep into my brain. I start to ask questions. Specifically about objectivity and subjectivity.
“So, when we’re being objective about things…it’s like…being a third party, being neutral, being an observer to a situation. It’s like stating a fact. But when we’re being subjective?”
(Author’s note: These conversations are very much real. And maybe too philosophical for a Tuesday evening at a bar.)
“Well, objectively, that’s an olive.” He nods to my martini. "Objectively, she’s just another customer at the bar.” He nods to the woman a few seats beside me that he’s been flirting with. “But being subjective. That’s when me and you speak with our hearts.”
Sensing he’s been gone too long, the woman calls him over.
I text my best friend.
“Ok, I get it now. His outburst. When it’s being done in front of you.”
“And you have no choice but to sit and just watch.”
“Exactly. I understand it now.”
Objectively. I examine my surroundings.
The woman who is he flirting with. His lighter I have in my bag. The drink in front of me. My depleting bank account, how I feel like I’ve been pushing a boulder for the past little while. Fustration.
Grief is love with nowhere to go.
Objectively. “He has a lot of girls coming here, asking for him.”
-
A few nights later, I see him out. “You were busy the other night”, me referring to the girl he was talking to.
“Oh come on, Emmy. No I wasn’t.” The mischievous grin appears. “I remember giving you my lighter.”
“I have it.” I rummage through my bag for that red lighter. Me always holding it was the subject of a few riffs. Or, rather, me holding it while I spoke to other men was always the subject of a few riffs.
I place it on the counter.
“Emmy. Keep it. I want you to. Trust me, you’ll need it.” With a wink, he blows me a kiss and walks away.
Something about his energy tonight is different. And something about mine is different, too. The kiss isn’t genuine. And it’s all starting to feel performative.
I text my best friend. I tell her how mad I am.
Objectively. I never wanted this.
Objectively. I never wanted to be just another customer to him.
And subjectively. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I wave at Peter Pan for the bill. Past Newsletters walks over instead.
“Let’s do a shot before you go.”
“No.”
He’s taken aback.
“Emmy. I told you to keep the lighter. It’s a joke. What’s going on?”
“It’s not about the lighter.”
It wasn’t about you asking him for cigarette, or for asking for help with the dinner reservation. It wasn’t about any of that. My best friend tells me. It’s all of it. It’s about you forming other relationships over the past year in front of him. It’s about you living. And it’s about him being stuck. You both were having a completely different conversation with your eyes. And everyone knew what it was really about. That’s why no one wanted to get involved.
“Every time I come in here. I don’t know who I’m getting. Or what I’m getting. It’s you and sunsets and the concept of home one day, or it’s you getting mad at me for talking to another guy, and then the next, it’s you performing for another girl at the bar . It’s a show. You put on a show every night for a different girl here. And I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.”
He is someone who can hardly demand loyalty. My best friend texts me.
Objectively? “That’s his reputation in the industry.”
But subjectively. We speak with our hearts, remember?
With his mouth slightly open, he stands in silence. I throw my denim jacket over my tiny orange dress. I always like to linger a bit after a dramatic exit, to give them ample time to chase after me.
But, he does not chase, or stop me in any way. He lets me go. He lets me walk through the door where I’d watch his eyes always follow me in the reflection. He lets me walk through the parking lot where he’d stand and smile as I struggled to light his cigarettes. He lets me walk past that white brick wall. The same one I where I’d lean up against and cry out tears of fustration. And the same one where I’d lean up against and let myself be kissed by strangers. The same wall that held our two frames, side by side last winter, while he told me that he knew I’d leave again. He lets me walks down the tree lined street. The same street dotted with tiny stars and branches that look like they’re touching the sky. Those stars and that sky and those branches I fell in love with, when I got that first text, two springs ago.
“So. What’s next?”