Deciding it’s best not to dwell on that particular subject, I take my last bite of pizza and stand up, brushing my hands together to dust off any loose crumbs, and start walking through the courtyard. Then I freeze. The redheaded pizza-hater is directly in my path, just a few feet away. His hands are still clasped behind his back as he looks at me with an amused expression.
I’m going to go ahead and assume that he just heard me speaking in perfect English. I act without thinking and do a quick curtsy. “Scusi,” I say, bustling past him and bounding into my apartment building.
Once inside, I step into the old-fashioned elevator through the two little doors and press my floor number. The lift roars to life and I drop my head back against the glass-and-wood-lined wall.
Yes, Kara. You just curtsied.
I wake up the next morning feeling sluggish and go directly to the pizzeria around the corner to get breakfast. I greet the middle-aged female storeowner and place my usual order, asking for a small slice of pizza marinara in my self-created mixture of Italian, English and sign language. I think she’s used to me by now but finds me tedious. I grab a bottle of water from the display fridge as she wraps my pizza in thick white paper and hands it to me with a strained smile. I pay for my food and exit the store.
I didn’t sleep well last night. I barely wrote. I’m restless and agitated, enough so that I decide to punish myself by skipping my sightseeing trip this afternoon in favor of an extra writing session. If I get something done, I’ll treat myself to a gelato.
By the way, the chocolate is better here. It just is. I managed to find the authentic gelato, the kind that is stored in metal tins and covered with matching metal lids and, no joke, I felt like I’d died and was then reborn with the sole purpose of eating more gelato.
With the promise of elevated ice cream somewhat easing my pessimistic mood, I walk back into the courtyard with more pep in my step. That pep vanishes, however, when I find that my cozy little bench is occupied. Occupied by none other than the redhead from yesterday, who is now sitting quietly, eating a large slice of pizza.
I walk over to stand in front of him, blocking his light just as he did to me the day before. “This scene feels vaguely familiar,” I say.
He glances up at me with an unconcerned look. “Mi dispiace, no English.”
“Well played.” I sit down next to him and rip open the paper that is keeping me from the carbohydrates I so desperately need.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says as I take my first bite. “I thought you didn’t speak English.”
I nod and chew until I’m able to talk. “I may have been faking that a little bit.”
“Really? A little bit?”
“Just a tad.”
“You may not believe it, but after hours of thought and multiple diagrams, I managed to piece that mystery together for myself.”
“What a letdown. And here I thought I committed the perfect crime.”
“It couldn’t be helped. I watched an impressive amount of Inspector Gadget growing up, so detective work has always been a keen interest of mine.”
“You’re an Inspector Gadget nerd? I can only hope that you’re referring to the original cartoon and not the movie.”
“Do I look like a monster?”
We both smile a bit and each take another bite.
“So what brings you to Italy?” he asks a while later.
“I’m sorry, please don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you even talking to me? You didn’t seem like my biggest fan yesterday.”
He doesn’t appear at all fazed by my words. “Yes, I’d like to apologize if I sounded a bit harsh about that. My tone always comes out more serious than I’d like it to. It’s good in business but problematic while attempting friendly conversation.”
I say nothing and he goes on, “I thought you seemed interesting. Plus, you appear to be as antisocial as I am, so that’s always helpful.”
“You’re very chatty for an antisocial person. Speaking to strangers takes the anti out of antisocial, thus making you social.”
“I just prefer not to eat outdoors by myself. Much as I personally don’t mind it, I’m growing a little tired of people looking at me like I’m a dangerous drifter.”
I somewhat get his point. I recall receiving some suspicious glances myself the past couple of times I went out to dinner alone.
“So you’re suggesting we eat breakfast together so we can stay antisocial without looking antisocial?”
“Precisely.”
“Okay,” I find myself agreeing. Why not? When in Rome, do as the similarly withdrawn non-Romans do.
He answers me with a very faint smile. “Good.”
For the next few minutes, we continue to share the bench, sitting and eating our pizzas in silence. It’s only when we both finish and stand to leave that he speaks again.
“For the sake of our burgeoning friendship, I should tell you my name is Liam.” He extends his hand and I don’t hesitate to shake it.
“I’m Kara.”
“Kara,” he repeats. He gazes at me for a brief moment before he does his token nod/bow and walks away.
A few minutes later, I head back to my apartment with a small smirk, contemplating how, in my own outlandish, hermit-like way, I just made my first friend in Italy.
19
Since our conversation almost three weeks ago, Liam and I have eaten breakfast together every morning, and our meals have now evolved into breakfast followed by midmorning walks. As each day goes by, we seem to claim more and more of each other’s time. Yesterday, Liam went on a morning bike tour of Rome with me. Two days ago, I visited the Borghese Gallery with him. Neither of us mind the company. Much as I glorify my cloistered antics,
