Italian for Beginners by Kristin Harmel Page A

been the drink
     Francesco served, along with a small bowl of potato chips, on the afternoons when we’d sat by his window, trying to catch
     a breeze, in the deepest days of that stiflingly hot summer.
    “The river and the Ponte Sisto are just a hundred meters that way.” Francesco pointed after he’d taken a long sip. He smiled
     at me. “Sometimes, I go run by the river now.”
    “You run?” I asked, incredulous. Francesco had always prided himself on being a couch potato who stayed in shape only because
     he worked hard on the weekends, helping friends lift furniture, mowing his mother’s lawn outside town, hiking with his buddies
     in the hills nearby.
    He smiled. “A lot has changed.”
    I nodded. “But a lot has stayed the same, too.”
    Francesco furrowed his brow, then nodded. He turned away and looked out over the city. Then he turned back to me. “So. Shall
     we go to dinner after you freshen up?”
    Francesco led me back inside, brought me a towel, and led me into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower for me, explaining
     that sometimes it was tricky to get the temperature just right. I loved the feeling of being taken care of by someone else
     for once, even if it was something as simple as someone turning on the hot water for me.
    I rinsed off quickly, washing away the remainder of New York from my skin while I quickly sudsed my hair with the bottle of
     Joico shampoo I found lying on the edge of the tub. I wondered for a moment, with a pang of jealousy, if it belonged to a
     girlfriend of Francesco’s, someone else who had shared his bed much more recently than me. I had to remind myself that I had
     no right to be jealous; I was the one who had walked away so many years ago, and I had certainly dated since then. Besides,
     he was with me now, wasn’t he?
    It took me about thirty minutes to blow-dry my hair with the travel dryer I’d brought (complete with a voltage converter plug)
     and slap on some tinted moisturizer, cheek stain, and a swipe of mascara—my quickest get-pretty routine. I’d have more time
     to dress up later, but tonight, I wanted to look effortlessly pretty and casual, like I wasn’t trying too hard.
    When I stepped out of the bathroom in a pale pink sundress with a white cardigan thrown jauntily over my shoulders, Francesco
     was sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, reading a book. He had changed, too, into inky blue jeans that were
     nearly black and a gauzy white shirt that he left unbuttoned almost to the middle of his chest, exposing his sleek, tanned
     muscles and a little chest hair. I swallowed hard. He was gorgeous.
    He looked up and smiled.
    “You look beautiful,” he said. “Shall we go?”
    I nodded and let him take my hand as he crossed the room toward the door. I didn’t know where the evening would lead, but
     I had the feeling that it would be a decisive step away from my life of safety and security in the States. New York and all
     my responsibilities there felt far, far away as we stepped out the door into the twilight and headed off down the street,
     where all roads led to Rome.



Chapter Seven
    A fter a stroll around the neighborhood, down to the river, up the Via Arencia toward the Pantheon and back over toward the
     Piazza Navona through a series of side streets and alleys, Francesco led me to a quaint, brick-walled restaurant just off
     the busy tourist square on a street tucked away behind an apartment building whose facade was crumbling, exposing worn, chipped
     brick underneath.
    We’d run out of things to talk about by the time we reached the restaurant, which was more than a little worrisome. How had
     we both been able to sum up the events of the past thirteen years so quickly? Surely more had happened to us than that, but
     I found that once I’d skimmed over what was happening with Becky and Dad, what had developed with my job, where exactly I
     was living and a brief, undetailed list of the major relationships