what is it that you really want?
part one
02.03.2024 - notes from the train
Things That Always Stay the Same:
The way Rome makes me feel
The friends I have there, the community I made
The weather - why does it always feel like spring?
The amatriciana
The bar. That bar and all of its characters
The love I had/have for him. Or for the two of them. I don’t even know anymore.
The love they had/have for me
“Sometimes…I couldn’t help but feel like I was this ping pong ball in between them.” Me and one of my good friends are seated at one of our favorite restaurants. I’m in Rome for the evening because I needed to pick up a few things. A new bag, namely. And a set of keys.
Our dinner spread? Beetroots, artichokes, amatriciana, and, of course, a bottle of red.
“But Emily, don’t you think that they both felt that way, too?”
-
The last time I saw the Man at the Front, I was in tears. I didn’t want to leave Rome. I didn’t want to leave my friends. And my emotions for PN - love, confusion, frustration - came to a boiling point.
The Man At the Front had asked me how I was starting to feel about him. And I looked at him, and said “It doesn’t matter how I feel about you. You’re in a relationship, too.”
“I was wrong about you. You are just like every other girl that comes here, asking for him.”
Those words stung. Even though I knew, and everyone else knew - how he really felt and where those words were coming from, they still stung.
But there was something about the Man at the Front that I had trusted, from the very beginning.
“I don’t ever worry about you when you’re with him. And it’s not just because he’s 6’5 and can beat everyone up. But there’s something about your relationship. I can’t describe it. It’s just a feeling of…I know he really, really cares.” My best friend texts me.
It’s been almost two months since that night. And after being the longest-standing employee, PN has decided to leave the bar.
So, I, Emily Mais, needed to return to see them both. Even if it was for one last time.
-
On a Thursday evening, me and my friend slowly approach those doors. That white brick wall, that tower in the centre of the parking lot.
It always calls me back, it’s always here.
But The Man at the Front isn’t anywhere to be found.
I text my best friend. “Weird. This is…weird.”
The bar counter is full, so the hostess seats us at a table in the other room.
“But we need to be at the bar…” My friend that I’m with, she gets it.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s so busy tonight. But when a spot opens up, I’ll let you both know.”
We sit at a table in the other room. Velvet cushions, dim lighting. It’s beautiful, but it’s not the same.
“Can you order me the usual?” I ask my friend. “I’m going to use the washroom.”
“Go do a little walk around. Good idea.” You see? She gets it.
I walk by the bar where PN is working, but keep my eyes focussed straight ahead. I turn the corner, and walk down that dimly lit hallway. And who do I see, in all of his 6’5 glory, walking towards me?
“Emily!”
His smile. It’s warm. It’s forgiving. It’s comfort. It’s home.
“Hi!” I’m instantly relieved to see him.
He opens his arms. And I bury myself into his wool coat.
“Emily. I’m sorry. I was thinking about you. I knew you were coming back soon. And I’m sorry about how we left things.”
“No. I’m sorry, too. That night…I wanted to message you after. But I just didn’t know…I didn’t know what to say.”
He pulls back and looks me up and down. “But I see the Milanese style has been rubbing off on you.”
The tights. The slingback heels. The mini. The oversized crew. It’s very nonchalant.
“But it’s sexy. In the most subtle of ways.” My best friend texts me.
“I’m just so happy to see you.” I tell him. And it’s the truth.
He wraps his arms around me again. “I’ll see you outside?”
“Absolutely.”
He leaves, and I reapply my lipstick.
Home. I mouth to myself. We’re home.
-
It feels good to be leaned up against that white brick wall again.
“You know your boyfriend is looking for you.”
I roll my eyes. “No he isn’t.”
“He is. I watched him circle the bar, then come outside and scan the parking lot. He didn’t see you so he went back inside.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
He starts to laugh. “It’s because you’re not seated in your usual spot. It’s throwing him off. Listen, I always just tell you what I observe. I have to go inside, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I am left outside, standing alone.
I think about the first time I met him. Leaned up against that same brick wall. PN’s cigarette in hand. That white summer dress, the middle of June.
“You don’t have to look at me with those doe eyes to get let back in, you know. You can just go inside.”
I start to laugh. “What do you mean?”
“Most girls. You know, they think they need to play that game with the bouncer. They give you that look.”
“Well, I had no idea that I was giving you that look. I think those are just my eyes. But thank you for the compliment.” I smile.
He starts to laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“Emily.” He repeats. He sticks out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
-
The parking lot is getting crowded. There are a few groups smoking cigarettes, spaced out between the parked cars and scooters. A couple starts making out beside me. The door opens behind me.
PN walks out, with a furrowed brow that’s deeper than usual, and a cigarette hanging behind his left ear. He does a scan of the parking lot, chooses an empty spot, walks over, and leans up against a car door.
I cross my arms across my chest and sigh. I don’t know what I want to get out of this interaction, and I never know what I will get out of any interaction with him. But it’s one of his last nights. I decide to slowly walk towards him and peek my head out from behind a group of 3 Romans. I give him a little wave.
“Emmy!” His eyes widen and a huge smile crosses his face. It’s warm. It’s friendly. It’s familiar. And these greetings from him don’t come often, but when they do...
“I thought you were in Milan!”
He leans in for a double kiss, but we hold each other for a few seconds longer. It’s an unusual greeting for us, but I welcome it.
“I was, I am. But I had to pick up a bag from my friend -“ I nod towards my new purse. “And a set of keys. I’m coming back in a few weeks.”
Still holding on to each other, he looks me up and down. “It makes me happy to see you like this, Emmy. Really. I knew Milan would be good for you.”
“I love it. I really, really do.”
“It’s the center of everything. The fashion, the art, the people…it’s like the London of Italy.”
“And what about you? What happened here?”
I hit a sore spot. He looks down and gets rid of the rest of his cigarette. “Nothing. It was just time.”
I want to pry, but there’s something about his body language that makes me second guess asking any more questions. Except for one.
“You think there’s finally space at the bar for one?” It’s the last of our routine.
“You know who to ask, Emmy.” He gives me one last smile and walks towards the door. “If it was up to me-”
“I know, I know. You’d give me the entire bar.”
He winks. “At your service. Always.”
The thing about love is this: the idea of losing feels evident in the beginning. The one who gets left first thinks they are the only person who’s ever felt this type of pain before.
But it’s as if an angel reached their hand out from the heavens and…really, they just set you free, first.
-
I’ve hit my two martini limit, and I am standing back outside with the Man at The Front.
“You know, you really hurt me that night. When you told me that I was just like the other girls.”
“Emily. I never believed that you were just like them. You’re not. And that’s what I was trying to tell you. He was treating you like them. And I didn’t want to see that happen. Because you don’t deserve that.”
I look down.
“I know you, and you…you romanticize things. Which, yes. It’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful way to live. But it also makes me sad. Because then there’s the reality of these situations. You want love, but you want it from a man who can’t…”
And in that moment, I started to realize something. It seemed like everyone wanted to tell me about mine and PN’s relationship. Everyone, except for PN, himself.
“You don’t understand what I’ve been through. What I’ve seen. Romanticism is the only choice I have. If I didn’t…hold on to every moment. If I don’t make something beautiful out of every memory…then I…I feel like I’ve lost the point of it all.”
“Can I ask you something? What is it that you really want?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want love? Do you want a relationship? Because it seems like…you’re always off. City to city, every few months.”
“I’ve said this to you before. I believe that love finds you. And it shouldn’t matter if someone moves or wants to experience and live in different places. If you have the love, and the right kind of love.. then it…should just always be there. Wherever you are. Wherever you go.” I know this feeling too well.
“But what if someone wants to build something with you?”
I’m not sure how to answer this. So, I don’t say anything. Instead, I go back inside.
-
The bar has finally emptied, and I slink back into my corner spot.
“I have a question.”
“Of course you do.” He smiles.
“Before I came to Italy, I had this ex back home. And the love always felt like it was there, or so I thought it was. Even after we stopped talking, he would always orbit around in my life. For years. I really thought we’d be together one day. Right before I left, he told me, “It’s been five years. And the feelings I have for you are still the same feelings I had for you, the day I first met you. But you don’t know where you want to live, you don’t know where you want to be.”
“Emmy. Listen. Love is love. It’s a feeling that follows you. From where it starts, to everywhere you go. Saying, “but you don’t know where you want to live” - to me, that feels like an excuse.”
“Like he’s scared?”
He nods. “Scared or he was unsure. Now, the right person.” His tone changes. He doesn’t look at me. Instead, he stares straight ahead.
“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.”
In that moment, in the midst of my martini haze, I really only cared about one thing. About being right. About having my “romanticism” validated. But now, as I write it out. I can’t help but feel there was more hidden behind those sentiments.
-
“Want to walk me home?” I ask The Man at the Front.
He nods. “I’ll drive you. Meet me around the corner.”
Out of everyone’s (PN’s) sight, I hop into the car.
“The Weeknd?”
“Of course.” He turns up the volume. After Hours. My favourite album.
We twist and turn through the empty 2 am Roman streets. The cobblestones, the empty piazzas, the street lights, the fountains that are still flowing.
And I can’t help but feel the tiniest bit sad when he pulls up to my hotel.
What is it that I want? The question repeats itself in my mind, over and over and over again.
I look over at the Man at the Front beside me and smile. His 6’5 frame. His kind eyes. His warm demeanor. How he remembers things. How safe I feel with him.
Neither of us say or do anything for a few moments. Abel’s voice plays in the background. He places his hand on my thigh. My heart is racing.
But at this moment, I know exactly what it is that we both want.