the stars in our eyes
what is grief, if not love preserving?
My beautiful friends.
It’s almost 6:30 AM in our little Roma. I say little because we're back in our favorite neighborhood. Our neighborhood that houses our favorite bakery, organic grocer, bar, and all of its characters.
I arrived late Thursday afternoon, and am cuddled under a million and one blankets. The nightmare of traveling during the holidays has taken its toll on me. I’m feeling under the weather and am extremely jetlagged - so, I thought, why not write to you?
Let’s begin.
-
“Look who it is.” The Man at the Front greets me with the biggest smile, and I can’t help but match his. We double kiss and hug. I get the tiniest bit emotional.
These characters. They all mean something.
“You know I was thinking about you the other day. About your writing and your traveling and all of your adventures.”
I start to laugh. “My famous last words are always: I’m leaving. And then I always come back.”
“I think Rome will always be your home sweet home.”
It feels like that, doesn’t it?
“Did you want a spot at the bar tonight?”
“Honestly? I’d rather just stay out here and talk to you for a while.”
I lean up against that white brick wall beside him.
“Baby Emily. I’d love nothing more.”
-
“It becomes like a drug, doesn’t it? Just one more time, we tell ourselves. But the problem is - it’s never just one more time. It never feels like enough.”
Me and my spiritual friend are having dinner in Toronto.
My eyes start to water. “I’ve done everything. Therapy. Writing. Working out. Traveling. Moving. Moving a few more times. And I still can’t shake it. After all this time.”
“Oh, Emily. All the things we’re told we “should” do. But can I ask you this: Does he know how you feel?”
“I mean, not directly.”
“Hm. It’s like he plugged you in. He made you aware of something. Love.”
“That’s exactly it. And then it just … had nowhere to go.”
The tears start to fall, and I decide to just let them.
What is grief, if not love preserving?
“I think you need to tell him.”
-
The Man at the Front tells me he wrote a letter to his girlfriend and took her to Paris. She’s moving away soon and he wanted to do something special for her.
“You know what I did? I gave her the letter in front of the Eiffel Tower. She opened it, and the tower started to light up.”
My eyes start to water here, too. The Man at the Front is a romantic. He has a good heart.
“That’s so beautiful. You really love her.”
“Emily, you know me. I wouldn’t have been with her for as long as I have if I didn’t. How are the men for you?”
“None. Can you believe it?”
“They’ve all left you alone?”
I laugh. “Yes. But you know me, I don’t feel this need to search. And I worry about a lot of things. But for some reason, finding someone is never something I worry about.”
“I do know you. And that’s why I liked…” he starts to trail off. “A lot of people, you talk to them, and you realize that they’re looking for others to fill something. And it all starts to become…superficial.”
“I think people are scared of being alone. Because they don’t know who they are, and they’re scared of who they’ll meet when it's just them and their thoughts. People think they need the other to define who they are, what they’re worth.”
I think we’re programmed too, to feel like there’s something wrong with us if we’re alone. But Rose always said - better to be alone than with the wrong person.
He smiles. “That’s exactly it.”
“But I really do love being on my own. When I get to travel, when I get to stay in cute apartments and write. And when I get to come back to places like this. I’ve been “single” for almost seven years. But honestly? I’ve had the best time.”
-
I don’t know if I ever had a healthy example of what a man’s love should look and feel like. And I know I’m not alone in this. I don’t know what I’d describe as healthy. Here’s the thing. My mom was my biggest cheerleader, my biggest hype woman. And when she died, that pillar, that trusted figure, all came crumbling down. I couldn’t rely on any of the adults around me.
And in my first serious relationship, he wanted nothing more than to put me back inside a cage.
“After all, the same reasons they’re taken with you are the same reasons they’ll end up leaving you for.”
And the men after were…it was as almost as if they were scared. The feelings were there. But they didn’t know what to do with them. I always felt like I was a glass bird in their hands. They had me, and I know they felt lucky. And I don’t fall in love easily, I really don’t. But when I do, I’ll let you have all of me.
But maybe they thought I was too fragile. Too impulsive. Too enamoured with curiosity. One wrong move and something would shatter. So maybe it became easier for them to place me on a shelf to admire from time to time.
And maybe they didn’t know it at the time. And maybe I didn’t know it either. But it was the kindest thing they could do for me. To set me free.
-
“You believe that love chooses you.” My spiritual friend tells me. “And that’s what you had with him. You weren’t looking. It just came around and tapped you on the shoulder.”
-
The Man at the Front excuses himself to go inside.
The tower in the centre of the parking lot. The stars. The trees. The dim streetlights. My second summer here. It always calls me back. It’s always here.
The door opens and Past Newsletters walks out, furrowed brow, a cigarette and lighter in hand.
We haven’t seen each other since he tried to ban me from sitting at the bar after my Orange Dress Outburst.
“You put on a show for a different girl every night and it’s pathetic. What a joke.”
Here’s the thing. I knew I was going to go back to the bar eventually, how could I not? So, I sent him a very mature message over the holidays telling him that maybe I was being the tiniest bit immature and my actions were derived from the tiniest bit of jealousy.
And to my surprise, I received a very mature and forgiving reply back.
Do I regret my Orange Dress Outburst? Absolutely not. But sometimes, we need to put our tail in between our legs in order to get what we want.
“How are you?” We ask each other the same question at the same time.
“I was bored at home, so I decided to come back early.”
“Ah.” He lights up his cigarette. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“It’s always good to go back, but it’s always a good reminder of why I left in the first place.”
He smiles. “It’s the same for me when I go back home to visit. After 2 or 3 days, I’m…”
“Ready to leave.”
Sometimes his eyes will twinkle when he laughs. “Exactly.”
I look down at my phone and pretend to scroll.
Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for our usual back and forth.
“You’re not waiting outside, are you? You can just come in.”
“Oh, I’m not coming inside tonight.”
He raises his eyebrows.
Right on cue, the Man at the Front walks back out.
It’s silent between all three of us.
-
“You were right though. It is a performance. He’s not the best looking guy. He’s rough, he’s mysterious. But there’s a charm about him. You saw it. And then when he’s behind the bar, you add in some alcohol. And the women all gaze up at him with stars in their eyes.”
“He was different when I met him. He was…more honest. More vulnerable, more real, more himself. He’s always been encouraging to me, but the past year … there’s just been so much resentment and darkness.”
“Well, you didn’t fit into what he wanted from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t look up at him with stars in your eyes. You didn’t fall for his performance. He wanted you to believe he was one thing, but you saw him for something else. The real him. You know how I know? You’re the only one calling him out on it.”
I let out a sigh.
“Oh, Emily. Sometimes I wonder.”
“Wonder what?” It’s getting colder, it’s getting later, and it’s getting busier. I’m tired. I wrap my camel coat tighter around my body.
“What would have happened if you had met me first.”
“But then we wouldn’t have had all the entertainment. Think about it - this bar is like Disneyland.”
He starts to laugh. We both turn around to look inside. “And I wonder what would happen if you sat next to the girls he’s flirting with right now.”
“I think he’s given up flirting with me. Too volatile.”
He shakes his head. “There’s a saying here. The last thing to die in a man is hope.”
-
I find myself leaning up against that same white brick wall on New Years Eve, a few nights later.
It’s 11:55 on the last night of 2023.
“Aren’t you going to go inside?”
“I don’t know if I have the energy to deal with -
“Emily.” The Man at the Front’s tone changes.
“He’s mad because he likes you and he can’t be with you. My advice? Go inside. Have a drink. It’s a new year.”
I needed the shake up.
“I think you might be one of my favourite people I’ve met in Rome.”
I walk in and smile and wave to the usuals. Two hostesses, another manager. I try to catch PN’s attention to order. And as suspected, he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued to the floor.
I roll my eyes. Another bartender sees me and gives me a sympathetic smile.
I order my martini at 11:59. At midnight, the bar erupts into cheers and hugs and double kisses. My dirty martini arrives right in front of me at 12:01. That must mean something, right?
I take a few sips and walk outside. Fireworks, fireworks, fireworks light up the night sky. I turn around and look at couples, the staff, young families - all watching the same sky that I’m seeing.
I’m alone, but, are we ever really? At this bar, most likely not.
The Man at the Front comes over to give me a hug and kisses me on the forehead. A hostess beside us watches and smiles.
“Happy New Year, baby Emily.”
I laugh on my way home.