The Pairing(91)
We tour the Colosseum on foot, our shoes on the same stones as thousands of ancient sandals. Fabrizio’s voice is hoarse from use as he recites story after story, reenacts battle after battle. Then we go back out through the archways, past the ruins of the fountain where gladiators washed their wounds, to the top of the Palatine Hill and its wide overhead view of the Roman Forum.
On a long tour, days have a way of stretching impossibly beyond their edges. So many things spread out over such short hours, one after another, until it seems unimaginable that the day could have begun in a different place at all. Like there has only ever been here, and then here, this fountain and that drink and this sparkling pane of glass, each trapped in an instant happening in the memory forever, each instantly replaced with the thing after that. Perpetual fleeting everything, worn-out body and blissed-out brain. That’s how this day goes on.
Fabrizio cuts us loose to explore the Roman Forum. Theo and I wander down the same main street where senators schemed and merchants traded goods and women practiced the oldest profession, everyone working or praying or gambling or spreading rumors, and past what still stands of the triumphal arches.
I imagine Theo and me in their world. I’d be the baker, baking loaves of sourdough under smoldering ash, olive leaves in my hair and flour on my tunic. Theo would be the roguish young charioteer who buys bread from me every morning and flusters the vestal virgins. We’d steal glances but never touch until we were alone, pressing each other into secret corners of temples, and when they bound their chest with leather to race, my name would be carved inside the straps.
“So crazy how two thousand years ago, they were feeling all the same things we feel,” Theo muses. “They wanted to be loved, and eat good food, and make art, and fuck.”
“The human condition,” I agree.
We pause at the most impressive temple, one with ten thick columns still holding up the frieze over its portico. A sign says this was originally built as a temple to Faustina the Elder, the empress. Her husband, Antoninus, was so heartbroken when she died that he had her deified and her likeness cast into gold statues, pressed into coins, and enshrined in this temple. He wanted the whole empire to worship her the way he did, and the cult of Faustina spread.
“Kind of romantic to love your wife so much you start a cult,” I say.
“I don’t know,” Theo says, an ironic lilt to their lips. “Did anyone ever ask Faustina if she wanted to be a god?”
I laugh, perfectly willing to take a nudge to the ribs if it means we can joke about this now.
“You’re right,” I say. “Very presumptuous of Antoninus.”
On our way out of the forum, we realize neither of us ate enough lunch, and we still have four hours until group dinner. Hungry and overheated, we choose the first pizzeria we see, partially because the waiter is attractive and partially for the sheer volume of mist piping into the outdoor seating area. Everything from the chairs to the silverware is slightly damp, sparkling with tiny, cooling water droplets. When the hot waiter takes our menus away, there are two dry rectangles left in their place on the brown paper tablecloth.
“Is this too much mist?” Theo asks. “I feel like I’m at a Rainforest Cafe.”
“No, it’s nice,” I say, watching a drop of water roll down the side of their neck. “Like being a cucumber in a grocery store.”
I drink a limoncello spritz, Theo has a glass of chilled Orvieto, and we split a pizza. When we’re done, we walk uphill to the Trevi Fountain, which is absolutely awash with tourists dripping gelato and sharing crispy fried supplì stuffed with cheese and tomato. We find a spot near the fountain’s edge and sit together.
“And there waits our lover, Sexy Neptune,” I say, admiring the fountain. “He always comes back to us.”
“I think that might be less about us and more about him being a popular subject for fountain sculptures.”
“No, we have a thing going on.”
“Hmm. Hold on.” Theo studies the fountain more closely. “I know this place. It’s in the seminal rom-com—”
“Roman Holiday,” I say at the same time Theo finishes, “The Lizzie McGuire Movie,” and we laugh.
I look at them, freckles out, hair whipped wild by the helmet and frizzed from mist, beside me in Rome after all. My charioteer. They made their own life, and it brought them here, and I’m lucky enough to see it.
I think of Faustina in the Forum, Theo on the plane. I want to do better this time. I want to know what they want. And whatever they want, I want to give it to them.
So, this time, I ask.
“Theo,” I say. “What do you want?”
It’s an open question. It can mean whatever they want it to mean.
They consider their answer for a long time, watching water crash into the bowl of the fountain.
“I’m working on it,” they say. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
That night, we have dinner at the kind of family-owned side-street osteria a person would only find if they knew where to look. It’s nothing special to see—flat and brown among all the ivy-draped alleys and heroic statues—but it feels special. The walls are covered in a riot of black-and-white portraits of great-grandparents, hand-painted pizza posters, grainy shots of sauce-smeared grandchildren, and signed headshots of Italian singers. Red-and-white-checked vinyl tablecloths drape each table, and mismatched plates overflow with pasta in a dozen shapes and colors.