Before we met up in Rome, I hadn\u2019t seen Samuel in ten years, and most of what I recalled from our conversations on smoke breaks and at parties were details about his girlfriends\u2014the one with the long nipples whom he had loved and who\u2019d eventually left him for her high school sweetheart; the one with a dead little brother and a penchant for being choked; the one who was ethically non-monogamous yet completely obsessed with him. Did I remember these stories because I\u2019d been a little in love with him? Or had he simply repeated them so many times?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
During my library fellowship in Padua, I had spent my days in the dark of the archives taking photographs of very old books about plants and my nights walking back to my apartment through the rain to eat pasta and sausage and drink vino sfuso<\/em> from the two-liter plastic bottles that I had refilled every Wednesday. I knew my last week in Italy would be greener as I ventured south to Rome, but I wanted it to be different, too. I had visions of myself like Timoth\u00e9e Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name<\/em>, suddenly young and trembling underneath someone\u2019s hands. Why not Samuel\u2019s? He was the only person I knew who lived in Europe, and I hadn\u2019t been with anyone since my last relationship, the one that had made me want to flee my life in the first place. When I messaged him on Facebook, I didn\u2019t explicitly say it was a fuck trip, but he agreed to meet me there and accepted the offer to stay in my Airbnb.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His flight from Berlin got in before my train, so he met me at Termini, where I was disorientated by all the flashing billboards and signs, reminding me of Times Square in a way that made me feel both comfortable and homesick. And then there was him, another flash of the familiar, a face I\u2019d known so many years before. His blond curls were shorn, and he had a man\u2019s face now, the boyish softness I\u2019d once liked supplanted by a network of fine lines that extended out from the corner of his eyes toward his temples and down along his cheeks\u2014many more lines than I had, in fact. His blue eyes lit up with his smile, and soon he was hugging me and telling me that I looked \u201cgreat, really great,\u201d which was a relief to hear after all the pasta and wine. \u201cYou too,\u201d I told him, and then I asked if he\u2019d ever been to Rome.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cFour or five times,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh. So this is familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s been a while. Actually, one of my best mates lives here, George, and I haven\u2019t seen him in three years. I don\u2019t know where the time goes.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYeah? Did you two make plans?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNothing concrete. I figured I\u2019d see what you had in mind.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I told him somewhat abashedly that it was my first time, and I wanted to see the sights\u2014but he didn\u2019t have to come with me, of course.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019d love to tag along,\u201d he said. \u201cThe Colosseum never gets old.\u201d The dad joke pleased me, as did the ease of speaking in English again, even though he had a bit of an affected European accent now, as vague and placeless as I suddenly felt.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I planned to take a cab to the Airbnb, but being less intimidated by the public transit system than I was, Samuel directed us to the proper machine to buy tickets, <\/em>and then to the right bus, and after thirty minutes of swaying and conversation about the book I was writing on herbal remedies for grief and what he\u2019d been doing in Germany\u2014he was a sommelier, it turned out\u2014we arrived in a one-bedroom apartment in Trieste, smaller than it had looked in the photographs, but not too small. We put our things in the entryway and explored the unit, recently remodeled to look like an Ikea showroom, white and ordinary. The only signs of life were the corn plant in the bathroom and the succulents in the bedroom window, although even they were only visible when the blinds were open. I was relieved when he suggested we go for a drink right away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As we walked to the restaurants on the closest piazza, the sun broke out from behind the rain clouds that had followed me for most of the fall. No longer trapped inside a bus or underneath the arc of an umbrella, I turned my eyes toward the palm trees and umbrella pines that arced above the tops of ochre buildings up to the sky. If we were brave enough, we could sit on a patio beneath them, tempting the rain to come again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We were.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Samuel made everything easy by speaking to the waiters in English, making no effort to go through the charade of attempting Italian after the first obligatory ciao.<\/em> Focaccia and hummus arrived along with our wine, and I didn\u2019t feel hungry, but within twenty minutes, everything before us was gone, so we ordered more.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It turned out that Samuel remembered more than I did from the nine months we\u2019d worked at the same restaurant. He asked me about my brother, my parents, and of course our manager Mark, who I\u2019d been dating at the time. \u201cThere was always something off with that guy,\u201d he said. And there had been, but I didn\u2019t want to tell him about the time Mark shook me so hard I bit my tongue, spitting blood out in his sink, the pink stream mingling with his beard trimmings. I should\u2019ve quit right away, but I\u2019d just gone on with life and the effort of loving him until it became too much. I\u2019d kept my graduate school admission a secret, staying until the day my father drove up to help me move, and then I left forever.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As Samuel asked me questions, images came back to me in uncertain flashes. Besides the alley behind the restaurant, we had once talked on a brown sofa, and once on a staircase strung with Christmas lights. I\u2019d forgotten almost everything about that time, but he remembered so much of me and who I had been then, a person I almost never thought of, and a person who was in many ways lost to me. I felt bees take up residence in my chest. I didn\u2019t even want to remember those years when I was living them.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Another memory floated to the surface. Samuel had once gone to the airport without his passport and asked me to bring it from his apartment. I had searched through boxes and drawers, then sat on his white comforter in the morning light. I must have found it\u2014it was on that trip, after all, that he\u2019d met the girlfriend he followed to Berlin. So I asked Samuel about her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky, blue except for a cluster of gray clouds crowding together in the distance. He shook his head. \u201cFuck this,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I didn\u2019t know what to say. \u201cSorry?\u201d I asked, trying not to be offended.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo, no, it\u2019s not you. I just can\u2019t keep talking about this shit.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIf it makes you feel better, I don\u2019t really want to, either.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGod! Thank you!\u201d he said, relieved. He lowered his eyes to mine again. \u201cWhen you see old friends, there\u2019s always this ritual, as if we can\u2019t enjoy ourselves now without resurrecting our memories first, trying to crawl back into who we were.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I knew what he meant, yet I now felt annoyed and a little embarrassed. I could feel my face hot, probably red. If we weren\u2019t going to talk about the past, what was left? Maybe this had all been a mistake.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I could feel Samuel looking at me. Then, he half-stood, leaning over the table and bracing himself with one hand as he kissed me. It was a long kiss, and I could taste the wine in his mouth, rich and leathery. He pulled back and sat down again, his stained lips still slightly parted.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSorry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I laughed and told him, \u201cDon\u2019t be sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We could have gone back to the apartment right away and taken off our clothes, but I think both of us knew that that would be less satisfying than prolonging the feeling between us and the question of whether or not we would sleep together\u2014although of course we would. Really the question was whether it would be full of passion and desire, the urge to wring something out of each other, or whether it would be ugly and awkward, the simultaneous consummation and death of another part of our youth. The longer we waited, the more the desire would grow. So we walked toward the Borghese gardens.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Now, there was a levity to our conversation. I could feel the laughter bubbling out of my throat as we walked side by side, or sometimes, through a crowd, with him slightly ahead of me. His phone was out as he navigated the streets, so I didn\u2019t have his full attention, but I wasn\u2019t sure I could bear it if I did.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When we got to the gardens, he stopped at a picturesque cart to get us two plastic cups of wine, and then we were wandering past the Villa Borghese, which I\u2019d bought tickets to visit the following Saturday. We walked down a long, wide sidewalk with cloud-like pine clusters above it. Soon, the sound of harp music was in the air, and we were navigating around puddles to get a view of the Temple of Aesculapius, the water reflecting the purple-streaked sky and the gathering clouds. We stood at the fence and gazed out toward the figure obscured behind the columns, but my eyes kept flitting back to my own reflection, our reflection. I remembered one particular photograph of us together at twenty-two, his arm around my shoulders. The last few hours revealed that I\u2019d barely known him, but something had inspired that embrace and my bright gaze within it, perhaps precisely the same things that inspired the image I was looking at now in the water. Perhaps there was really something there<\/em>, here.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Samuel looked down, and then he kissed me again, his hand on the back of my neck, and I used my free arm to pull him as close as I could, to feel the realness of him, nearly dropping my wine in the process. After a minute, though, he seemed to remember our surroundings. There were other tourists clumped around the harp player, children splashing in the puddles in their little yellow boots.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It started to rain. We ran back toward the museum, where there were men selling umbrellas for two euros a piece. We each got one and then, for the walk back, we were forced to stay in our own circles of protection. It wasn\u2019t a romantic rain but a miserable one\u2014I was wearing my suede boots with the little heels for the occasion, and they were soon soaked. I could feel my socks getting wet underneath them, my feet becoming cold, then numb.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When we got back, we were both drenched from the shoulders down. Samuel broke the coldness that had crept between us, taking off his jacket, his shoes and socks, all while still standing in the foyer, and then turning toward me as he took off his shirt. I saw the expanse of his chest, his lungs heaving beneath his bony ribcage, and then he picked me up and carried me to the bed in my wet layers, which he peeled off one by one. I giggled, I laughed, I tried to protest that I could do it myself, but he was in a serious mood as he warmed up each of my hands between his palms, lifted my shirt, and started to drag his hot breath down my ribs, down past the waistband of my jeans as he helped me shimmy them off.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n You come back to that first time with someone again and again. The moment when desire was at its peak and you held yourself taut, waiting to see if it could be fulfilled. That time, it was. I realized I had wanted this for a decade. With him, I became my younger self again, but not na\u00efve or open to abuse\u2014just unashamed, ready to grasp what pleasure I could take without worrying overmuch about the consequences.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWow,\u201d he said afterward. \u201cI didn\u2019t expect this.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThen why\u2019d you bring condoms?\u201d I asked jokingly.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, I thought it would take more effort to seduce you, at least.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We kissed, and I asked for him to warm me up again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The first night was lost to love. I didn\u2019t leave the room again, although he briefly put on his raincoat and pants, too rushed to get fully dressed before dashing down to buy a few slices of pizza and another bottle of wine. We went to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, and I kept startling awake from dreams. In one, we were making love on the floor of the Basilica of St. Anthony, the saint\u2019s preserved tongue falling from its reliquary to get between us. In another, we were apart, me trapped in the belly of a strawberry bush, Samuel eating the fruit rather than cutting me out. After each, I woke and found him next to me, wound my arms around him. I couldn\u2019t get close enough.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The next day, we reemerged into the world. We walked to see the obvious sites. Each one seemed less beautiful than the prospect of losing myself with him again. But Samuel had made reservations for lunch on the opposite side of the city, so we spent all day out in the bright cold, kissing in front of strangers and staring at each other and laughing at the surprise of it all. What was art next to this? All of culture, really, existed simply to try and capture the feeling that was in our chests, waiting to be looked at and stoked into flames again and again. The next day in Vatican City, I looked up at the Sistine Chapel and thought, meh.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n By the fifth day, we had given up on the world. We tried to order in pizza, but instead we got two plastic containers of burrata, each with different accoutrement\u2014peppers, pieces of basil, a whole tomato. We ate them laughing. I wanted to stay inside those moments forever, but of course, another urge was rising, too. I wanted to ask him, What next? <\/em>He wasn\u2019t going back to the States for the holidays, he told me\u2014his parents were coming to Germany. And a small, irrational part of me thought that perhaps I could come, too. Nothing was waiting for me in my apartment back home, except for the gift my subletter had left on my counter. She\u2019d sent me a photo of it along with the keys, and from the size of the box, I guessed it was a mug. Perhaps\u2014definitely\u2014it was too soon to meet his family, but I was willing to pay the ticket change fee for even another day, another night.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When the sun fell that evening, I was ravenous. Samuel had a restaurant in mind, and after a three-course meal down the street from the Pantheon\u2014a building I had still not set foot inside\u2014we ran through the cold to the bus stop to wait for the vehicle that would take us back to our temporary home. We found two seats, one in front of the other. Samuel sat down behind me. As the bus drove past the glorious fountains, the ancient architecture done up in wreaths and ribbon and lights, all I could think about was how to voice the whispers in my heart.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He leaned over my shoulder. \u201cHey. What do you think about going over to George\u2019s tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGeorge?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou know, my friend who lives in Rome.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh. Where does he live again?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He told me the neighborhood was on the other side of the river, in the opposite direction from the one we were heading in. It was past 10:00 p.m. already\u2014not that we\u2019d been going to bed early\u2014and going back out into the cold was the last thing on my mind. If Samuel sensed my hesitance, he pushed right through it. He told me about meeting his friend in Berlin, and the crazy nights they\u2019d had together in their twenties, and the fact that he\u2019d been feeling guilty because George\u2019s fianc\u00e9e had just left him. With just two nights left in the city, he wanted to get the visit over with. That way, he and I could enjoy the rest of our time together. I didn\u2019t have to come if I didn\u2019t want to.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo, no,\u201d I said. \u201cI can come.\u201d The truth was that I couldn\u2019t bear to be away from him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We got off the bus at the next stop and hailed a cab. We held hands in the back seat, and I asked Samuel what to expect. He told me George was \u201ca riot.\u201d When we arrived, he leaned on the doorbell, and then we stood in the cold outside an ancient stucco building. We waited for so long I started to doubt we had the right address, but just before I asked Samuel to call, a man came down. He was short with a little bushy beard and a beanie pushed over his brow.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLook what the cat dragged in,\u201d he said to Samuel. I expected George to be American, but no, he was British. \u201cThis wanker!\u201d he exclaimed, standing on his tiptoes to ruffle Samuel\u2019s thinning hair.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAnd you must be Hannah.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He walked us through the lobby and up the five flights of stairs, past peeling paint and the sounds of television sets coming through the doors. Panting, we arrived at a tiny, split-level apartment with a sofa and a kitchenette beneath a spiral staircase that led, I assume, to a lofted bed. There was so little in the apartment that it was hard not to notice everything in it\u2014the dishes in the sink, the Clockwork Orange<\/em> poster on the wall, the coke on the table. I wasn\u2019t aware it would be that kind of night, but almost as soon as we sat down, both men had done lines.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I hesitated, and then told them I\u2019d have just the tiniest bit. George offered us wine, too, and I accepted, then perched opposite the sofa on a little, leather, heart-shaped ottoman while the two men caught up.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n George told the story of his jilting with a certain hysteria, as if he couldn\u2019t quite believe what had happened. He and Anna had known each other for a year, been engaged for six months. He\u2019d never thought he\u2019d get married at all, but she\u2019d been so jealous<\/em>, and in June, when he\u2019d gone on a trip to Marseilles, she\u2019d been convinced he was cheating. Knowing this tale was not meant, really, for my ears, I made myself small. I looked at my phone, scrolling through the photos we\u2019d taken. George was telling Samuel how Anna had left him the first time, via text, and he\u2019d flown back right away to swear his love and win her back. She\u2019d thrown the ring he\u2019d bought onto the ground. It hadn\u2019t been good enough for her, she told him, it was a fucking piece of crap. And it had been\u2014he\u2019d just grabbed something pretty from a vintage store in the neighborhood; he\u2019d thought it was about the gesture. In one of my photos, Samuel was in front of the Trevi Fountain. In another, I was in front of a blooming oak leaf hydrangea. There were none of us together. As I scrolled, I half-heard the tale of George and Anna\u2019s reunion, how they\u2019d finally bought a proper ring and she\u2019d moved into his flat\u2014this one, although it was hard to imagine a second person\u2019s possessions inside it\u2014and they had started actually planning the wedding, her mom visiting from Naples and sleeping on the sofa, as if there were room for that.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cFuck. Women<\/em>,\u201d George said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI know it,\u201d Samuel said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIs she your girlfriend?\u201d George asked, and I realized he was talking about me. Trying not to look too interested in Samuel\u2019s response, I stood up and started looking for a glass. Samuel didn\u2019t say anything, and when I sat back down with my water, George pressed him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, is she or not? Would you share her?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Samuel just smiled and rolled his eyes. When we made eye contact again, he winked at me. It was true that even I could see George was just heated up, but I wished someone would try and tamp it down.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My new love and his old friend drank more, did lines, talked. Mostly George talked, going on and on about Anna\u2019s mom\u2019s visits. I drank water; I drank wine. We heard about the way she kept the house, the things she made and didn\u2019t make for breakfast, the way she made it impossible to fuck with her snores and sighs. Maybe there were signs earlier, something he\u2019d missed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSigns of what?\u201d Samuel asked.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His ex-future mother-in-law had had a dream a few weeks prior to Anna\u2019s departure. In it, the family dog had been pregnant with puppies, but she hadn\u2019t ultimately given birth to them. Her swollen stomach disappeared, and Anna was the one who had the litter. There were four of them, tiny and brown, and the dog was so jealous she could barely be kept out of the nursery. She scratched and scratched at the door, the paint peeling up underneath her claws, and the puppies whimpering behind it. Anna didn\u2019t have enough milk, the right milk, and the dogs began to grow up thin and angry, their cries an unceasing, hideous peal.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n At first, George had thought it was funny. They didn\u2019t have a nursery, and Anna wasn\u2019t going to have puppies, or kids, or anything. She had an IUD. Slowly, he started to understand that she was actually upset about it. She thought it was some portent of what they would give birth to together. He\u2019d tried to make light of it, tell her he could wear a condom. Or if there was something wrong with their kids, so what? They could raise a differently abled child together, couldn\u2019t they? As long as it wasn\u2019t actually a dog. Hell, even if it was. But Anna couldn\u2019t let it go. For a week, she wouldn\u2019t have sex with him, and then when she finally did, she spent the whole time staring up at the ceiling. She cried afterwards, making him feel guilty as shit. A week later, she moved out of the apartment without warning. He didn\u2019t know where she\u2019d gone, George told Samuel. He hadn\u2019t looked, yet, but maybe he should start with her parents\u2019 place in the south.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Underneath the tannins of the wine, I could still feel the numb drip at the back of my throat. I wanted to relax\u2014just an hour before, I had felt so stupidly happy<\/em>\u2014but now, the bees were back again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think you should do that, man,\u201d Samuel counseled. \u201cIt sounds like all you can do is move on.\u201d He tried to get me involved in the conversation, to tell George about my research. \u201cIs there an herb he could take?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m a historian, not an herbalist,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n George leaned across the table toward me and told me, \u201cI bet you could help me forget.\u201d Then he turned back and asked Samuel, \u201cSeriously, is she fair game?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAsk her<\/em>,\u201d Samuel said. \u201cShe speaks for herself.\u201d I went into the bathroom and shut the door.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sitting on the toilet with my tights around my ankles, I messaged him from my phone, which I\u2019d had the foresight to keep in my hand. I\u2019m ready to go, <\/em>I typed. I listened to the muffled talking\u2014George was on again\u2014and waited for a response.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It didn\u2019t come.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I went back out and took my seat on the ottoman. I kept my phone in my hand. Now, George was leaning back against the sofa, his red face jutting toward the sloped ceiling and the square pane of glass set into it. When Samuel glanced in my direction, I widened my eyes, can we go?<\/em> and he gave me a subtle shake of his head, no, not now<\/em>. Or maybe we didn\u2019t know each other well enough to silently communicate. Maybe he had no clue what I was saying. Instead of trying to figure it out, he laughed at George\u2019s stories. He offered me more wine, and I refused.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s not very fun,\u201d George said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And Samuel looked at me brightly and said, \u201cShe can be.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, what\u2019s her fucking problem tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I had had enough. I stood up. \u201cI think I\u2019m ready to leave,\u201d I said. And then I put on my coat and went down the stairs, my legs trembling.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the ground floor, I messaged Samuel again, but he hadn\u2019t even seen the last two. Maybe his phone was in his coat pocket. Or maybe he knew that as soon as he took it out, George would grab it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I stood there and looked through my email. I read the news. I gave Samuel all the time in the world to come down and get me, but he didn\u2019t. So I went back out into the night and tried to remember the path the car had taken. I\u2019d been relying on Samuel to know where I was, and now I was as good as lost. I looked at my phone again and again, toggling between my messages and the map that would get me to the appropriate bus stop, but I kept taking wrong turns onto narrow, darkened little streets. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel like this? It was late, now, but as I wandered on, I began to pass couples, to see orbs of light suspended above the street. And soon, I realized I was by the American University, young people still milling around at the end of the semester. They came in groups of twos and threes and fours, everyone a part of something\u2014as I had always hoped to be, as I had always failed to have been.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Finally, I gave up and called an Uber.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Back in the Airbnb, I took off my shoes and crawled into bed with my coat on. I clutched my phone in front of me, reading through our whole exchange on WhatsApp since October. But since we\u2019d spent every moment together for five days, there was no record of our affair in text. I tried to think through it from beginning to end, from the first kiss to the last one just before we\u2019d gotten on the bus. As I wrapped myself in these recollections, I first worried that Samuel would be angry at me when he came back. Or maybe he wouldn\u2019t come back at all. Then, remembering the suitcase spilling open just to the side of mine, I began to dread the certainty that he would. I fell asleep composing a speech in my head.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n At six that morning, the doorbell rang. It took me several minutes to find the light switch, my shoes, and the key. I took my coat off. When I arrived at the front door, Samuel had an apologetic little smile on his face. A smirk, some would say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cDid you have fun?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI did. Sorry George bugged you, though.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI wanted to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAnd you left.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n What was there to say after that?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We had only one more full day together, and he spent most of it asleep in bed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Late that afternoon, we went to the Villa Borghese at our appointed time despite the fact that Samuel was hungover, actually wrecked. A part of me wanted to confront him, but another part felt pity for the way he winced in the sunlight, the lines etched more deeply on his face than the day before. And another part knew that all confrontation would accomplish was the utter destruction of the bright, sparkling feeling that had breathed between us for five days. There was still a glimmer of it as we stood side by side looking at Bernini\u2019s Daphne and Apollo<\/em>, more beautiful than I had imagined. This was the stuff of myth\u2014pursuit and desire so intense that they make us inhuman.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Samuel\u2019s flight left in the early hours of the morning, and I don\u2019t think he woke me up before he left. If he did, the moment receded into the landscape of my dreams, which had become boring again. In them, I was arranging my photographs into files, trying to decipher lines of curling text, checking my email. When I woke up, I remembered that I preferred them to be that way. I cleaned the apartment. I packed my bags with my clothes, my souvenirs, my toiletries, and a clip from the Haworthia that grew by the window.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Before we met up in Rome, I hadn\u2019t seen Samuel in ten years\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":6751,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6745","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n