by Fabio Volo
As he was making tea, I noticed that on the kitchen table there were a few drawings of a house. They looked like they had been done by an architect. I asked him if they were for the farm he and his brother owned in Tuscany.
We sat down on the couch and talked about a project that we would perhaps be working on together again. We started to imagine how we were going to hide from everyone else in order to keep making love. Then he took the teacup from my hand, put it down on the table next to his, and pulled me close to him. My heart was racing as our bodies slowly started melting into one another. We made love delicately, quietly, in the light of day, without any extreme games. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. When I woke up he was snoring lightly. I moved a bit and started to look at him, following the outline of his face and the contour of his eyes. I really like the shape of his head. The more I look at him, the more beautiful he seems. He’s a man I constantly desire—he even turns me on when I slowly follow his relaxed profile with my eyes. I told myself I have to be careful; this game of normality we’re playing today is dangerous for me. I’ve thrown myself into this story, with my entire body and my entire head, but I can’t bring my heart into it, too. Maybe I’m just deluding myself and I’ve already brought it; maybe I’ve already fallen in love. I tried not to think about it and I told myself that it was better to let go completely and enjoy what was happening. I always destroy the beautiful things even before they’re born, out of fear of suffering.
He woke up and caught me staring at him. He kissed me and, as if he could read my mind, told me not to think too much. Then he got up, took a shower, and went into the kitchen. We had some red wine. I never drink wine at home, even though I like it, because Paolo prefers beer and I never feel like opening a bottle just for myself.
I like the way he moves among his things, how he looks for and immediately finds what he needs. As we were waiting for lunch to be ready, he made canapé topped with a sauce made of avocado, chili pepper, lemon, olive oil, and salt. We sat down to eat when it was already after three in the afternoon. I was happy about everything, nervous, moved by so much simple beauty. We went back to the couch for coffee. I was wearing one of his shirts and he told me that he was going to wear it that night so he could smell me.
He turned on the stereo and played some beautiful music I’d never heard before, some nocturnes by John Field. He was talking, kissing me, picking me up in his arms, inviting me to dance with him. I felt drunk, but it wasn’t from the wine.
My head was spinning and I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I recognized the woman in the mirror. I recognize myself only in his bathroom mirror. I can finally see myself.
That Sunday was so intimate and tender that the next day I felt the need to call Carla.
“I was just at the record store.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Why, what’s so strange about that? Can’t I buy some music?”
“Of course, but this is the first time I’ve heard you mention it. What did you pick up?”
“Some nocturnes by John Field.”
“Where did you hear about him?”
“I read about him in a magazine. Anyway, I didn’t call you to talk about music, but to tell you that I spent the whole day with him yesterday.”
“What do you mean, ‘the whole day’?”
“Yes, I told Paolo I was going to Federica’s, and instead I was at his place from morning till night.”
“How did it go?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy with a man in my whole life. He made me lunch, we drank some nice wine, we talked a lot.”
“You’re not falling in love, are you?”
“No, no. I don’t think so.”
“Elena. Don’t screw this up.”
“No, I mean, maybe I’m a bit into him, well … It’s kind of difficult not to fall in love or not to feel something for him. You know me, plus he’s a wonderful man. And it’s not just the sex, he’s a very attentive and affectionate man. Anyway, I’m not used to it. I think he’s a bit into me, too—otherwise he wouldn’t behave the way he does.”
“But what does he say?”
“Nothing, we’ve never talked about it explicitly, but you can tell by the way we are together.”
“Be careful not to make a movie out of it in your head. Maybe he’s living this story in a very different way.”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but if you could see us together you’d understand.”
“That may very well be the case. I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m only telling you to be careful … Sometimes people build their side of things on initial small misunderstandings.”
That day on the phone Carla kept telling me to be careful. She repeated it so many times that I even suspected she wanted things between him and me not to work out. I could sense that it was difficult for her to understand what happened in that apartment.
June 17th
Writing makes me relive those emotions, makes me feel close to him. Sometimes as I’m writing I take short breaks and put my hand up to my nose to smell our scents, or just mine. The hand I write with is the same I use to pleasure myself. Writing has almost become like touching myself.
I realized that I’m not writing only because I’m afraid I’ll forget, but also to conquer my fears, the fear of losing again what he gave back to me.
I thought I was capable of loving a stranger. I had always thought about love the way I had been taught, convinced it was the only way. With him, instead, everything was different. With him, I decided not to fake it, not to wear masks. I want him to see me for what I am. If I now have, besides passion and desire, feelings for him, I won’t hide them.
I wrote these words after he had opened up to me and confided in me in a way he had never done before. We were taking a bath, had finished a whole bottle of wine, and the water was relaxing us even more. On the edge of the tub there was a pair of sunglasses.
“What are these for?” I asked him.
“I like taking baths with my sunglasses on; it’s something I’ve been doing for years. You should try it.”
I put on his glasses.
“They look good on you,” he told me, laughing.
“Here, they’re yours, you put them on.”
He put them on then took them off immediately. “I’m ashamed of it if I’m not alone.”
“What do you mean? You usually have company when you take a bath?”
He laughed.
“Tell me something, how many women have been in this tub before me?”
“Not many, I just had the bathroom redone …”
“You’re a dick!”
“It’s true, I’ve only had this tub for a couple of months and you’re the first.”
“Seriously, when did your last relationship end?”
“I don’t know if I would call it a relationship. Anyway, it was over a year ago.”
“But have you ever really fallen in love?”
“Of course I have—I’m not from another planet, am I?”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing, stories end.”
“How long did it last?”
“Two years.”
“Since then, you’ve never felt the need to be intimate with a woman? Don’t you ever feel lonely? Aren’t you afraid of growing old alone?”
“I’m already old,” he said, and started to laugh.
“You’re only three years older than me, are you saying I’m old?”
“Three years is a long time.”
“How do you see yourself in a few years? Still alone, or with a woman?”
I kept thinking: “‘Say you see yourself with me in a few years.”
“I have a bunch of images I like of me with a woman, beautiful situations to be shared together, but I know that I wouldn’t be able to do it. In my head they’re perfect, like all fantasies. But in reality they’re never like that and I know that it’s my fault. I like to imagin
e a beautiful love story then as I’m living it the worst part of me comes out. The couple dynamic makes me worse than I am.”
“Maybe it’s the idea you have in your head of couples that’s wrong. Maybe your points of reference are rather sad. Did your parents love each other?”
“I think so. My dad was always traveling for work—when I was little I didn’t see him too much. My brother and I were intimidated by him. I think they loved each other in their own way. My mother couldn’t wait for him to come back, but as soon he got home the only thing she wanted was for him to leave. She was different when he was around. I missed my father, but I liked it better when it was just the three of us at home. We’d play more and everyone was more relaxed. Anyway, I don’t think that this has anything to do with my relationships. I just think that I’m not capable of living a story worthy of my fantasies. And in the meantime my images keep me company.”
“And what images are those?”
“The same ones everyone else has, I think.”
“Come on, stop acting shy and embarrassed. I’m not buying it, tell me a few of them.”
He put his sunglasses back on. “Nothing too original. I think it’s incredible how everything changes when you meet a person you love. It’s incredible how quickly that person becomes the only one you need. You feel as if the thought of her wraps around you and keeps you warm. Everything’s lighter, even when you’re at work and it’s four twenty in the afternoon and it’s raining outside. You’re driving on the freeway, you’re tired, your clothes are uncomfortable, but you think about her and you smile to yourself. Then you look in the rearview mirror to see if you’re handsome enough for her. You send her texts and if she doesn’t respond immediately it’s because she’s in a meeting or she didn’t hear it, certainly not because she doesn’t feel like answering. It’s Friday night, you look at her, and you think that you’re lucky because you’ll have her to yourself for the next two days. She’s yours at breakfast, yours after lunch, in bed, as you’re trying to watch a movie. She tells you that on Tuesday she’d like to cook you dinner and that she’ll expect you by nine, and, by eight forty-five, you’re climbing the stairs to her apartment, two steps at a time, happy and in love, because you can’t wait to kiss her and smell her scent. As you walk into her place you can already smell something good on the stove and you can’t find the words to express how happy you are, and when you find yourself alone in the bathroom, you look in the mirror and congratulate yourself on how beautiful she is.”
“You’re not normal. Of course reality ends up disappointing you.”
“It’s not that things don’t live up to my expectations—it’s that I’m the one who’s not serene and in love as I’m climbing up those stairs. I imagine a man capable of loving and being loved, while I can’t do it.”
“If you love yourself, you can learn to love others, too, I think.”
“I never learn, I’m afraid, or at least I haven’t learned yet.”
“It will happen when you’re truly in love.”
“I know.”
He splashed some water on me.
“Do you want hear some more fantasies?”
I said yes because he looked a bit embarrassed and I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable.
“My fantasies about couples are usually set between the end of September and the beginning of November.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, that’s just the way it is. October … I see myself wearing a jacket and sweater, walking down the street, holding hands with her. On Sundays we go eat pumpkin ravioli in Mantova, or tagliatelle in Bologna, at a restaurant I’ve known for years. Then we drive back that evening, and it’s starts raining around Modena and you can see the headlights of oncoming traffic all over the windshield because of the rain. Everything’s dark in the car, except for the lights on the stereo, which is playing a beautiful CD. I’m driving only with my left hand because I’m using the right to hold her hand, and I’d like to turn down the volume a bit, but I don’t want to let go of it. I can see myself visiting European capitals on the weekends and staying in fancy hotels: saunas, Turkish baths, spas, fitness centers, and around five in the afternoon, walking into a coffee shop to have a slice of apple pie with cinnamon and hot tea. I picture us drinking wine in front of a fireplace—we don’t even have to make love because sometimes we just like to be like that. I can picture us at home cooking together and watching a movie, or on the couch, each reading a book.
“I like all of these fantasies. But when I happen to be with a woman, I haven’t been able to go through with them. When I’m with a woman, after a little while, I start dreaming of taking a trip to California by myself, of renting a car and driving around for hours on end with the wind in my hair.
“When I’m with a woman I dream of freedom; when I’m free I dream of love. Until I haven’t learned to feel free in a relationship, it’ll be very difficult for me. I keep thinking that one day everything will change all of a sudden. I know that what I just said doesn’t matter at all, that it’s all an excuse, they’re provisional answers that won’t last much longer. One day they’ll be insufficient and then I’ll have to decide whether to find new ones or to give up. There’s something unresolved that doesn’t allow me to serenely live the life I have. I keep running away from the past and toward a future I imagine. I only live in the present when I make love: it’s the only time I’m truly there. I know, it sounds trivial, but for the time being, this apartment is as far as I go. When you come through that door I’m here, present, and ready to love. Outside of here I’m not capable of doing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s wonderful when two people manage to get along with each other without falling in love; when they fall in love, or when they start saying ‘I love you’ or other words like forever, it’s as if that’s the time when the landing begins. As if the phrase ‘I love you’ was the beginning of the end. Maybe I’m exaggerating … It’s a topic that leaves me very confused these days.”
As he spoke, he was sweet, vulnerable, and adorable in his honesty.
“You’re smiling because you don’t even believe what you just said, right?” I commented.
“Maybe not.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“So that you can prove me wrong by saying something smart and reassuring.”
“I’m not going to reassure you at all, you can do that on your own.” This time I was the one smiling.
“If that’s the case then I’ll drown myself in the tub.”
“You see? In the end, you turn everything into a joke and feel safe.”
“One day I’ll stop running and my irony will no longer be a form of defense. It will turn into one of my qualities, since I’m objectively a very funny man,” he told me, grinning from ear to ear.
I started laughing, too. “Have you ever had any fantasies about us?”
“Since the moment I saw you.”
“And what sort of fantasies did you have?”
“The ones we’re living now.”
“What about the other girls at work?”
“No, not with them.”
“But didn’t you notice they’re prettier than me?”
“I don’t think so. Plus they lack something you have.”
“And what’s that? Let’s hear it.”
“Something that’s hard to explain, but that you can feel, something that makes you a woman, as if, unbeknownst to you, you’re still carrying the seductive scent of the original sin. For a woman like you I would pick all the apples from the tree, even if God would never forgive me for it. You remind me of the bike races I ran around the block as a young boy.”
“Now this is a new one.”
“It’s a new one for me, too. Anyway, the point is that I still haven’t learned to love serenely, and it’s not something I’m very proud of.”
“You’ll see, it will happen when it’s supposed to happen.”
As I said it, I realized that I was thinking about the two of us. At that moment, I asked myself why a man like him, someone capable of speaking freely to a woman about his limitations and contradictions, couldn’t maintain a stable relationship.
He was resting his head on the edge of the tub and, with his sunglasses still on, was staring at the ceiling. I had the sudden urge to hold him tight and never let go, but I didn’t do it out of fear that he’d be dreaming of California.
June 25th
Oggi pomeriggio sono andata in bagno e ho fatto una foto sexy. Poi gliel’ho inviata, con un messaggio: “Così non ti dimentichi di noi”.
This afternoon I went to the restroom and took a sexy picture of myself. Then I sent it to him, with a text: “So you don’t forget about us.”
“I’m crazy about you. Now I want another one.”
I took another photo and he answered: “I’ll be back soon, I miss you. Now I have to go back to my meeting, all turned on.”
We started exchanging messages. “You can’t imagine what I want to do to you right now.”
“Why don’t you write it down?”
“I’d rather show you when I get back.” I was ashamed to write what was going through my mind.
“A hint?”
Knowing I was capable of turning him on made me feel powerful. I let myself get into the spirit of the game and sent him another text.
His answer was: “You’re driving me crazy. This meeting is officially unbearable. I can’t think straight, the blood isn’t reaching my brain.”
“Good, that sounds like good news.”
“Are you coming by tonight? When you send me pictures you make it hard for me to wait.”
“I can’t. You have no idea how much I’d like to.”