He was wearing dark-wash jeans and a green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I just knew that green would match his eyes perfectly. I took a moment to marvel at how beautiful he was, then skipped off towards him. It was not the most elegant way to approach a man I fancied, but I was so happy to see him, the giddy schoolgirl in me took over.
“Hi,” I said, arriving a little breathless. I grinned up at him and he grinned down at me. Then, as though we’d done it a hundred times before, he swept me up in a hug, his arms around my waist and my feet leaving the ground for a second. I held him close, my arms around his neck, as nostalgia and lust mingled and washed over me.
God, he smelled good—like cotton sheets dried in the sunshine amongst citrus blossoms.
“Bonjour, chérie. Welcome to Roma. You look wonderful,” he said, putting me down and sweeping his eyes over me. They crinkled at the corners and he bit his bottom lip through a smile. When it emerged from between his teeth, I wanted to lick it badly.
Momentarily struck dumb by his handsomeness, I eventually replied, “So do you.” And he did. As I’d guessed, the green of his shirt did incredible things to his eyes, and up close his forearms were tanned and muscular.
I suddenly remembered my manners. “I’m so sorry I got lost and you had to wait. I hate being late. It’s so rude.”
“Ne t’inquiète pas, it’s no problem. I’m just glad you are here.” As much as I would have been perfectly happy to stand there and smile at him until it was time to say goodbye, it was hardly an action-packed itinerary. And it definitely didn’t factor in my plans for that bottom lip.
“So, what have you seen so far? Do you want to explore, get a drink?”
“Well, yes to both. I’ve just come from a tour and we saw the Colosseum—wow—and the Roman Forum—also wow. But that’s about it, really. I mean we have tomorrow to explore on our own, but if you know of some places I should see … you’ve been here before, right?”
“Yes, many times.” It didn’t come out as arrogant, just matter of fact, but I still felt idiotic for asking.
I replied with an insipid, “Oh, right.”
“Which means I do have some favourite places to show you,” he responded enthusiastically.
“I’d love that.”
“Well, this, right here, is one of them.” He took my hand in his and for a gesture so chaste, it pushed lust to the forefront of my competing emotions. I forced myself to concentrate as he led me around the fountain, explaining it to me.
“This was designed by Bernini. You might know some of his works.” I did not. “He was a sculptor mostly, and these figures represent the four great rivers of the world—each from a different continent. You see here, the Ganges from Asia, the Danube—Europe, of course—the Rio de la Plata from the Americas, and the Nile from Africa—his face is covered, you see? It is because when this was sculpted in the 1600s, the source of the Nile had not been discovered yet.”
I peered at the details of the sculptures as we circumnavigated the fountain. Again, it was awe-inspiring that a human could start with a block of marble and work inwards to that. “It’s incredible,” I said, almost to myself.
Piazza Navona
“Oh, I do want to see the Trevi Fountain, if that’s all right?
“But, of course. It is magnificent.”
“It’s a little touristy, though, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “I think when we get there, you will see it is very touristy, but it is a must, I think, especially your first time in Rome.”
“And I’ve got some coins.”
“Ah, yes, for the three wishes, non?”
“Oui.”
He gestured towards one of the roads leading off the piazza and we walked side by side.
“And what will you wish for, Catherine?”
“Hah! I’m not telling you my wishes. They won’t come true.”
He shot me an amused smile. “I think if you tell me before you make them, they will come true.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Oui. I believe so.” When I looked up at him, I was met with an amused smile. Was he fishing? Was he supposing my wishes would be about him?
“I think I’ll play it safe.” I honestly had no idea what I’d wish for. And, of course, it didn’t really matter. It was a silly thing, like rubbing the brass warthog’s nose. But as we walked, I realised I did have a wish in mind and it had to do with Jean-Luc’s very kissable lips.
Our first stop after leaving Piazza Navona was not the Trevi Fountain, but it did leave an indelible mark on me. The Pantheon.
After spending much of the afternoon exploring ruins, it was incredible to see a structure that ancient—built around two millennia ago—and that intact. From the sentries of wide pillars which guarded the entrance to the elaborate designs of the porticos and walls, from the geometric marble floor to the vast dome with its oculus, an eye open to the elements, I couldn’t stop gawking. My jaw started to ache with all the open-mouthed wonder.
“Spectacular, non?” said Jean-Luc leaning over my shoulder.
“Yes, just spectacular. It seems even bigger inside than it does from the outside. It makes me feel … so small.”
“Perhaps this was the intention of the Romans, to make people feel insignificant when they came to honour the gods.”
“If that’s the case, it’s effective.” I took another long look at the blue sky visible through the top of the dome before wandering back towards the door.
Pantheon
We stepped into sunshine and I marvelled at how, all around us, Romans were going about their day ignoring this impressive structure right in their midst. They bustled by, dressed impeccably, as though they were collectively late for something important—most likely to meet someone for coffee or an after-work vino. If they weren’t on the move, they were sitting around tiny tables drinking from tiny coffee cups.
And I had scrubbed up well that day, but the Roman women were next level. For one thing, through some sort of break with the laws of physics, they were able to traverse a city where cobblestones reigned supreme while wearing stilettos. Most women were either pencil slim or curvy in all the right ways, and most had long hair, even the middle-aged and older women.
Like Gabriella, they wore full faces of makeup despite the warmth of the weather, and I ended up with a roving girl crush as it transferred from woman to woman on our journey across town. I wished I could pull off a perfect red lip, especially at the end of a workday. I usually chewed off my muted beige lipstick by recess, and I never bothered to reapply it.
I was giving myself whiplash admiring the Roman women, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a familiar face. I stopped short and stared as I realised that Isabella Rossellini was crossing the street towards us. Her signature gamine haircut framed one of the most beautiful faces the world has ever seen—that I’ve ever seen—and she wore black capri pants and a high-neck short-sleeved black top. Dani would rock that look, I thought.
“What is it, Catherine?” He must have followed my line of vision, which was a good thing, because I’d lost the ability to speak. “That’s Isabella Rossellini,” he whispered and I nodded mechanically.