ROMANCE IS A PUNCH IN THE FACE
“That’s the second time you’ve talked about killing yourself. One more, and…”
His look issued a warning, and I was startled. He called me out. We were drunk and emotional at a trendy restaurant in Milan after seeing the ballet.
I was trying to be the optimistic one! I had only said that in response to him and his friend, who had joined us for dinner, claiming that the best days of their lives were behind them. If that were the case, who wouldn’t want to end it?
I knew then that this romance was consuming me. I was falling; whether in love or into a black hole I couldn’t tell.
I had no intention of having a “fling” while I was traveling through Europe. Why would I? The days of random hook ups were behind me, as my attraction (to men) tended to be based on whether they would theoretically make a good baby-daddy to my future baby. Nothing is sexier than grocery shopping, you know? The likelihood of finding that seemed slim; I was a fleeting presence among the places I visited.
It was a different kind of instability, however, that kept me from seeking romance before my “prime baby-making” days were over. Not even a year earlier I took a hiatus from juggling a “day job” while pursuing acting in Los Angeles. With no idea what I wanted next, I gave up my overpriced apartment and moved home. A few months later I took what was in my bank account and left for a three-month trip to Europe. That does not a future mother make.
I was connected to Giovanni tbrough a mutual friend. We met after two weeks of being abroad, in Naples, Italy, which was my “home base.” It was the night before I launched a 60-day journey to seven different countries. I had almost canceled, but figured, eh. I put on some jeans.
He picked me up in his Porsche and I immediately wrote off the fast-talking, faster-driving quintessential Neapolitan man and it gave me confidence to do so. He didn’t seem my type, physically or otherwise. Still, by the end of a dinner filled with laughter we had a strong “friend” spark.
60+ days later I returned to Italy and was invited to stay in the spare bedroom of his apartment. It made sense for several reasons, and since he didn’t make any advances the night we went to dinner I felt safe accepting his offer, so I moved to his place.
As I headed towards his apartment, I did not expect what was coming. Not any of it.
For instance, I wasn’t expecting his apartment to be absolutely stupidly stunning, hanging off the Mediterranean Sea with the balcony overlooking Mount Vesuvius. I didn’t expect it to be bright and tastefully decorated and sparkling clean. And, while I had some idea that he was wealthy, I didn’t expect the pretention I thought I picked up on to translate so simply to… adultness.
I began to feel less like the independent woman who reveled in adventure and more like the underemployed broke girl who didn’t have her life together.
Over the next few days we hung out when we could. He took me to sushi dinner and noticed how upset I got when he mentioned the “beautiful ass” of a young woman at a neighboring table. Why wouldn’t he mention it? It was the (perky) elephant in the room. The first night we met I told him I was bisexual and we had delighted in discussing… certain aspects… of the female form. Besides, there was nothing romantic between us. It was natural that he shared his observation.
I surprised myself by how sad I became, jealous of the much younger girl. I suddenly felt old and unappealing. Any confidence I managed to hang onto since we met was slowly draining out of me as I desperately tried to reconcile with the injustices of youth and beauty, with those who have endless possibility ahead. (Enter my first fatalistic comment.)
And, most importantly… did he think my ass was beautiful?
That’s when I realized I had a crush.
After that, my moves around the apartment became mostly strategic. Would I wear my yellow gym shorts or tight jeans? How do I look sitting on the couch like this?
One night we stayed up late with a friend of his, talking about the nuances of sex, love and relationships; was it appropriate to keep nude pictures of an ex? What did it mean to be attracted to other people while you’re in a relationship?
The intimate nature of our conversation continued to shift my feelings. Everything he said and did seemed sexy. Over the next few days, the way he sang loudly in the shower made my heart swell, and the way he dressed for the day impressed me. I felt comfortable and safe in his presence.
The day we kissed, I temporarily won the battle with my insecurities. Upon his suggestion, I snuck into his bed to wake him with gentle prodding, and giddily endured his bad breath when he awoke and assumed the “cuddle” position. He took the day off work and we wandered the city, then later curled up and watched a movie. I remember him giving me long kisses on the cheek. He said something like, “I don’t know why, but I want to keep kissing you on the cheek. Is that okay?”
At the end of another long evening, I said goodnight and leaned in for one more kiss on the cheek, but this time it felt a lot… sexier… and when I turned to look up at him my heart leapt as our lips locked for a solid five-minute make out session!
I was elated. I felt desired and I certainly desired him… and if his hands were any indication, it would seem that he did, indeed, think my ass was beautiful.
He asked me where I wanted to sleep and I appreciated that he wasn’t presumptuous or pushy. I stayed in the spare room. I didn’t want to rush this, partly because it felt special, partly because I loved lusting after him and I wanted more of it, and partly because I was afraid of losing control.
Before the romance struck he helped me plan the next leg of my journey, which included us seeing jazz together in Rome, and then meeting up the following weekend in Milan to see ballet at the La Scala Opera House. His sense of adventure exhilarated me.
The day after our kiss we left for Rome. We saw a live band and afterwards when the DJ played, he pulled me on the dance floor, spinning me around until the music got dull. We went home and consummated our romance (quite passionately, I might add.)
Milan only nurtured our bond. We took long walks in the rain, engaged in chats over lengthy meals about things big and small, and had sex when we were too tired to have sex.
That night at dinner with his friend, when he indicated that he believed his future could never be brighter than his past, it felt like a slap in the face. I wanted to show him the silliness of what he said when I blurted out, “if that were true, I’d kill myself,” but perhaps it was hopelessness sinking in that made me carelessly utter those words. It was constantly nagging at me, that this wasn’t real life; that in real life, I wasn’t good enough to make him happy.
When he invited me to come back to Naples with him I wanted to go but couldn’t shake the anxiety that haunted me. I was swept up in our romance, but at what cost?
He left and I stayed, agonizing over whether I had made the right decision.
I looked back on times I prioritized the pursuit of a job over the possibility of love. I realized that taking risks in my career hurt less than taking risks in love.
From my very first heartbreak and all the heartbreaks to follow, my vengeance would be to succeed in my career. Love became a painful betrayer, something to be put on the backburner so I could focus on that career; now, I weighed my self-worth by success in that career, or lack thereof.
There I was, no job to distract me, self-esteem depleted and yet, nothing to stop me from hopping on an 11-hour bus ride back to Naples to spend time with Giovanni while I still could.
The last of our days together were similarly blissful; he perceived my essence, appreciated the way I look at life. We shared moments that were so lovely, I wonder if I had been imagining them.
It was also heart wrenching; I knew the end was growing near. I wanted there to be a solution, yet I found none and he offered none. It was hard not to take personally.
Arriving back home was difficult, but the warm weather, seeing my family, and facing challenges that lie ahead helped distract me from what I left behind.
I hear from him once in awhile and my heart skips a beat, but in between is a silence so loud, it makes me uncertain of my memory. It makes me wonder if my ass just wasn’t beautiful enough.
“You didn’t come here to find love, right?” He asked me one night. “You came to find yourself.” It felt more like a plea than a question and I couldn’t risk telling him a truth that I didn’t even want to admit to myself… that I was actually looking for love. I had always been looking for love. What else is there?
Was I ready for it? Apparently not. Did what we have even come close to love? In retrospect, I’m just not sure.
What we had was a romance; a romance that hit me hard when I wasn’t expecting it; a romance that overwhelmed me with impractical emotions; a romance that- to this day- brings me hope that love exists.
ROMANCE IS A PUNCH IN THE FACE.
