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When you told me you wanted to take me to Europe, I had no
idea time would be measured differently there. At home, we
measured our time together by weekends and the hours after work.
But as soon as we arrived at the airport in Rome, you lit a
cigarette, something I'd never seen you do before. "I only
smoke when I travel," you said. "Everyone smokes here, you'll
see." So we waited to pick up our luggage until you smoked your
cigarette to the nub.
We walked around Rome, stopping at the Trevi Fountain for
you to have a cigarette. I watched the Italian boys in pale
jeans caress tight-skirted girlfriends and threw a golden 200
lire coin into the water. When you told me, "I'll catch up, let
me just finish this cigarette," I descended into the Capuchin
monks' cemetery alone. I shivered under the eyeless stares of
hundreds of skulls. You didn't catch up with me until the exit.
You kissed me so I'd forgive you; your hair reeked of smoke and
I pulled back.
On the train to Florence, you squeezed outside our
compartment to smoke in the aisle. Wispy swirls trailed out the
window. I heard you practicing Italian to a girl whose scarlet
lips held a slender cigarette, whose hands moved quickly in a
blur of gold rings and jangley bracelets. That night, we drank
Nastro Azzruro from the bottle in a darkly airless bar near the
Ponte Vecchio; everywhere I looked, men stubbed their cigarettes
in ashtrays, woman pursed their lips to inhale acrid smoke. A
cloud hung near the ceiling, and I felt as if I couldn't
breathe, so I left you there, laughing with a group of
Australians, while the ashtray filled with butts. In our
pensione, I crawled into bed, wrapping the thin sheets around
me.
At breakfast, over espresso and brioche, I mentioned, "I
don't like you smoking." You said, "Don't worry, I'll stop when
we get home. Let's go shopping — after I finish this
cigarette." Rings floated from your mouth. I watched them
dissipate into floaty ovals, then to smoky tufts buffeted by the
breeze. I wondered how long I'd be waiting.
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