Roman Crazy
Page 52
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“Great seats. Huh,” Marcello echoed, pausing to brush them both off before allowing me to sit down. I knew that huh.
“What’s the matter with the seats?” I asked him in a low voice, leaning close.
“There is nothing the matter with the seats,” he replied, not taking his eyes from the stage. “I was planning on buying the tickets. I would also have gotten great seats.”
“But I already bought them,” I said, confused.
He huh’d again. “You bought the tickets.”
“Why do I feel like there’s something I’m missing?”
“You invited me to this concert, you should have let me buy the tickets.”
“Wait, you’re pissed because I paid?”
His jaw clenched. That meant I was right.
“Holy 1952, women are allowed to purchase concert tickets, they’re even allowed to purchase tickets for their fella.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“A little bit.” I placed my hand on his knee, patting it. “It’s not a big deal. I bought the tickets not to supplant your masculinity, but because I didn’t want to stand in that line, that line that’s still as long as it was when we first got here, mind you, so look who had a great idea about buying tickets early?”
He frowned, finally looking down at me. “I would prefer to pay for things, for us, when we are out.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Marcello, and I’m sure that’s the way things are done here, but if I want to do something nice for you, for us, even if that means shelling out a little cash here and there, I’ll do it.”
“But—”
I placed my finger over his lips. “I know you’re used to getting your own way, and you likely still will, most of the time. But let this one go, okay? Let’s just enjoy the music.”
I watched his face as he listened to me, really listened to me and let my words sink in. My Italian man was old school, even more so than I realized sometimes. And I loved being taken care of by him, I’d never deny it. But I’d also been taken care of by someone for a very long time, and it was something that eventually made me feel small, weak, unable to make decisions for myself.
Did me paying for tickets to a Gershwin concert equal letting an entire marriage go by where I let my husband handle every single dollar that came into the house? No. No way. Not even close.
But it was a tiny foothold that I’d gained tonight, without even knowing it. I wasn’t going to apologize for paying for something. And I’d make sure however old school Marcello was that he knew where I stood on things like this.
I’d take a tiny foothold.
The lights dimmed, the music began, and I kept my hand on his knee throughout the concert. Sometime around “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” his hand covered mine, weaving his fingertips in between mine and holding tight. I grinned into the darkness.
* * *
WHAT DOES ONE WEAR to learn how to make homemade pasta? I asked my closet, rejecting dress after dress. I finally settled on an outfit, got dressed, and waited for Marcello to arrive. I sat, then stood, then sat again. Wait, was I pacing? I was pacing now, why was I pacing?
What was I feeling? It wasn’t nerves exactly, but something close to nerves. Excited? Yes. Antsy? Definitely. I had the lovely thrill running through me, a thrill that ran faster whenever I thought of his face, his eyes, his lips. His laugh.
Mmm . . . I got it.
Anticipation.
What we were doing, here, now, in Rome, was something new. We were trying something new.
Dating.
It was something we’d skipped the first time, although not on purpose. We went from zero to naked in no time flat. Back then, we couldn’t help ourselves. Our hormones were not our own, and they ran the show. But this time, on our reunion tour? Consciously or unconsciously, we both wanted to savor this, experience this together like an actual couple.
I wanted to be more of a proper girlfriend and cook dinner for us, something local and luscious, but even though I’d taken classes in the art of French cooking, I was missing something in my repertoire. An authentic Italian meal.
There were flyers all over town catering to expatriates, those studying abroad, or long-term vacationers. Italian Home Cooking was by and large the most highly recommended on TripAdvisor.
I was banking on extra points from the teacher since I was bringing my own Tuscan son. Marcello wasn’t sure at first. He insisted he could teach me how to make pasta, gnocchi, and that incredible thick, crusty Italian bread I’d been served at every meal since arriving in Rome, but he’d yet to actually teach me a thing. In the kitchen that is.
A text came in from Marcello, letting me know he was late leaving the office and he’d meet me at the studio. A quick walk through Trastevere lead me to a bright, spacious building. The layout was perfect—every utensil I needed, piles of veggies that could rival the farmers’ markets, and a crush of eager students all sipping wine were scattered around the room.
At the center was a long banquet table set with glasses, plates, and baskets waiting for us to complete our meal and enjoy the feast we would make together. Exactly the kind of atmosphere I’d been hoping for when I signed us up.
Photos of previous happy classes dominated one wall. Students posing with their wine, their dinners, or with the chef. He reminded me a bit of Marcello, with a genuine smile in every picture. Our menu was written on a chalkboard in the kitchen. Pasta Bolognese, chicken cacciatore, Italian broccoli, roasted potatoes, and tiramisu for dessert. My stomach growled in anticipation.
“What’s the matter with the seats?” I asked him in a low voice, leaning close.
“There is nothing the matter with the seats,” he replied, not taking his eyes from the stage. “I was planning on buying the tickets. I would also have gotten great seats.”
“But I already bought them,” I said, confused.
He huh’d again. “You bought the tickets.”
“Why do I feel like there’s something I’m missing?”
“You invited me to this concert, you should have let me buy the tickets.”
“Wait, you’re pissed because I paid?”
His jaw clenched. That meant I was right.
“Holy 1952, women are allowed to purchase concert tickets, they’re even allowed to purchase tickets for their fella.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“A little bit.” I placed my hand on his knee, patting it. “It’s not a big deal. I bought the tickets not to supplant your masculinity, but because I didn’t want to stand in that line, that line that’s still as long as it was when we first got here, mind you, so look who had a great idea about buying tickets early?”
He frowned, finally looking down at me. “I would prefer to pay for things, for us, when we are out.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Marcello, and I’m sure that’s the way things are done here, but if I want to do something nice for you, for us, even if that means shelling out a little cash here and there, I’ll do it.”
“But—”
I placed my finger over his lips. “I know you’re used to getting your own way, and you likely still will, most of the time. But let this one go, okay? Let’s just enjoy the music.”
I watched his face as he listened to me, really listened to me and let my words sink in. My Italian man was old school, even more so than I realized sometimes. And I loved being taken care of by him, I’d never deny it. But I’d also been taken care of by someone for a very long time, and it was something that eventually made me feel small, weak, unable to make decisions for myself.
Did me paying for tickets to a Gershwin concert equal letting an entire marriage go by where I let my husband handle every single dollar that came into the house? No. No way. Not even close.
But it was a tiny foothold that I’d gained tonight, without even knowing it. I wasn’t going to apologize for paying for something. And I’d make sure however old school Marcello was that he knew where I stood on things like this.
I’d take a tiny foothold.
The lights dimmed, the music began, and I kept my hand on his knee throughout the concert. Sometime around “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” his hand covered mine, weaving his fingertips in between mine and holding tight. I grinned into the darkness.
* * *
WHAT DOES ONE WEAR to learn how to make homemade pasta? I asked my closet, rejecting dress after dress. I finally settled on an outfit, got dressed, and waited for Marcello to arrive. I sat, then stood, then sat again. Wait, was I pacing? I was pacing now, why was I pacing?
What was I feeling? It wasn’t nerves exactly, but something close to nerves. Excited? Yes. Antsy? Definitely. I had the lovely thrill running through me, a thrill that ran faster whenever I thought of his face, his eyes, his lips. His laugh.
Mmm . . . I got it.
Anticipation.
What we were doing, here, now, in Rome, was something new. We were trying something new.
Dating.
It was something we’d skipped the first time, although not on purpose. We went from zero to naked in no time flat. Back then, we couldn’t help ourselves. Our hormones were not our own, and they ran the show. But this time, on our reunion tour? Consciously or unconsciously, we both wanted to savor this, experience this together like an actual couple.
I wanted to be more of a proper girlfriend and cook dinner for us, something local and luscious, but even though I’d taken classes in the art of French cooking, I was missing something in my repertoire. An authentic Italian meal.
There were flyers all over town catering to expatriates, those studying abroad, or long-term vacationers. Italian Home Cooking was by and large the most highly recommended on TripAdvisor.
I was banking on extra points from the teacher since I was bringing my own Tuscan son. Marcello wasn’t sure at first. He insisted he could teach me how to make pasta, gnocchi, and that incredible thick, crusty Italian bread I’d been served at every meal since arriving in Rome, but he’d yet to actually teach me a thing. In the kitchen that is.
A text came in from Marcello, letting me know he was late leaving the office and he’d meet me at the studio. A quick walk through Trastevere lead me to a bright, spacious building. The layout was perfect—every utensil I needed, piles of veggies that could rival the farmers’ markets, and a crush of eager students all sipping wine were scattered around the room.
At the center was a long banquet table set with glasses, plates, and baskets waiting for us to complete our meal and enjoy the feast we would make together. Exactly the kind of atmosphere I’d been hoping for when I signed us up.
Photos of previous happy classes dominated one wall. Students posing with their wine, their dinners, or with the chef. He reminded me a bit of Marcello, with a genuine smile in every picture. Our menu was written on a chalkboard in the kitchen. Pasta Bolognese, chicken cacciatore, Italian broccoli, roasted potatoes, and tiramisu for dessert. My stomach growled in anticipation.
