Expiration Dating (12 page)

Chapter
Nineteen

In class the next morning, I was determined
not to let my annoyance show in front of Andrew. However, he didn’t make it to class again. He wasn’t at lunch, either, and when I texted him that afternoon I didn’t get a response. It wasn’t until Friday morning that I saw him again. He walked into class, stretching his arms above his head as he sat down.

.
              “Sorry I’ve been MIA these past few days. How’ve you been?” he asked with a yawn.

             
“I’m fine,” I said.

             
“How was the show?”

             
“It was good,” I said, determined not to give him the satisfaction of missing a perfectly terrible performance. “You missed out.”
              “I’m sure I did, but I was
not
in any shape to make it out of the house,” he said. I sat in thought for a moment, trying to decipher his cryptic message.

             
“I saw Josh. He said you and Vince had a friend over,” I said.

             
“Yeah, she’s my friend. We went to school together and she’s studying abroad in Germany. She came to visit us this weekend,” he said. “The night of the show was her first night in town, and we ended up drinking at home and didn’t make it to the show.”

             
“I noticed,” I said.

             
“Sorry,” he said, seeming to sense my new attitude for the first time.

             
“It’s fine, have a great rest of the weekend with your friend,” I said as class began.

I left without grabbing coffee or saying goodbye. I wasn’t upset
Andrew had another girl sleeping in his bed. After all, he had pined over his ex-girlfriend in front of me for the last month whenever he fancied. I was just disappointed that our lunches had decreased to the point of nonexistence. I had depended on our friendship the first few weeks of class, as a voice from home, someone to talk with. I still had my girlfriends, but Andrew was fun to
do
things with. I started walking home instead of taking the subway, thinking it would be a good way to clear my head.

             
I turned down a hidden side street, finding a shortcut to the D’uomo. The detailed statues on the Cathedral were so intricate that I could walk by and study it every day of my life, and there would still be things I couldn’t possibly notice. Today, the light breeze was blowing the flags atop the grandiose church, and people sat outside lounging around on the steps. The pigeons flocked to the square in front of the D’uomo because of the high tourist count at all hours of the day.

I perch
ed on the steps, getting lost in the view before me. A small Russian boy held his hands up to his mother, begging her to purchase bread from the homeless man following them around. A black man in a colorful poncho tried to tie
friendship
wristbands onto tourists’ arms. This was one of the tricks everyone fell for; the part the poncho clad men don’t tell you is that after they tie, very tightly, the wristband on your hand, they ask for money. The guilty tourist then feels as if he has to hand over any Euro change in his pocket.

Just sitting in the presence of the D’uomo helped me feel better;
Italy was starting to feel like home. The way you could tell the Piazza was special, was because it was a location where native Italians and tourists alike congregated. That in itself says something about the power of the building. Italians generally stayed far, far away from touristy areas as a rule, but there was something about the D’uomo that was utterly amazing, captivating.

             
I stood, making my way down the steps. I perused the stores along the outside of the D’uomo. The first stores were often overpriced souvenir shops, but as I got further away from the church, it was easy to why Milan was considered the fashion capital of the world. I passed Gucci, Versace, Armani Exchange, and Herve Leger within a block. Here, fashion was art.

I often walked through the
streets around this area to simply admire the views. They were designed with exquisite taste, unique ideas for window displays and brand advertisements. I paused in front of a realistic tiger in the storefront of one boutique with a very real-looking manikin holding it on a leash, dressed to the nines in furry boots, sunglasses, and mittens, all surrounded by glittering icicles.

Versace usually had a wild light display, and today was no different. The purples and blues wove together in a pattern
discernible to the human eye. I enjoyed the circus of it all; I couldn’t afford to buy anything, I couldn’t even afford to make an appointment at one of the stores. That’s right, you needed an appointment to step foot in half of these places, but I could still bask in glow from window shopping. It was a space where I could feel glamorous for a moment.

             
I turned and began walking back towards my house. My mission had been accomplished; my love affair with Italy refreshed. I felt light hearted as I glanced around, not even annoyed by the slow moving tourists. I turned the corner, and as I did so, I caught the eye of one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen. He could have stepped from the pages of a Gucci catalogue.

He was dressed in faded
, expensive jeans, a beautifully made button down blue shirt under a jacket of what looked like a quality fabric. I knew he was Italian when I saw a scarf around his neck. Anywhere else in the world, he’d be considered gay. Here, he was fashion savvy. The light, blue-green scarf brought out his eye color, which matched to a tee. I looked away, catching myself gaping, and picked up my pace. As I moved forward, I glanced back. The man caught me looking.

He smiled, a quick flash of sparkling teeth
, and I again looked away and kept moving, more slowly this time. I passed a large pillar and stood behind it. I paused, with my back to the pillar. I breathed deeply, and prepared to continue home when he came around the pillar and stopped in front of me.

             
“Ciao, Bella, ti conosco?  Ti ho visto e devevo parlare con te,” the stud rattled in quick Italian.

             
When I found my breath, I stuttered, “Sorry, I…” I shifted my purse, looking everywhere but his eyes. “Do you speak English?”

             
“English, yes, I am sorry,” he said in an educated accent. He spoke English better than the average Italian, but his speech was still laced with traces of his native tongue. Instead of making it difficult to understand, however, the flecks of Italian embedded into his English made him that much more endearing.

             
“I saw you from across there, and I must talk to you. I was saying before that I thought I knew you from somewhere?”

             
I shook my head.

             
“My name is Roberto.”

I offered an embarrassed grin.
“I really don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.”

             
“But you look Italian, you do not dress American. That is why I spoke to you first in Italian,” he said, his eyes quickly taking in my simple button down dress. My legs suddenly felt exposed as his gaze traced the hemline of my dress. The edge reached midway down my thigh, but now felt much shorter. I was relieved my black tights provided some extra coverage of my pale skin.

             
“Thank you?” I half-asked.

             
“Yes, yes. That is good. Americans, they don’t know how to dress. You,” he held up his pinky finger pointing straight upward; the Italian sign for slim. Apparently he was under the impression all Americans were overweight.

             
“My family is Italian,” I said. “They’re from Bari, in the south. I’m studying here, though.”

             
“Ah.” His eyes crinkled with a grin. “That explains things. You look very nice.”

             
This beautiful man was telling
me
I looked
nice?
Where was Emilia – I desperately wanted her to overhear this. I was getting the hang of dressing like an Italian. It just wasn’t acceptable in this society to wear sweatpants out to the grocery store. The scary part of it all was that I was beginning to like it.

The people
didn’t wear pounds of makeup or over style their hair, but when they put on clothes they were conscious about being neat and put together. Life in Italy seemed much simpler in many ways; it reminded me of the days when there weren’t a zillion fad diets, silly rules and lawsuits over nothing. Sledding on playgrounds wasn’t
outlawed
at schools here because of the threat of lawsuits, and people didn’t sue because their coffee arrived hot. There was something raw and basic about Italy that was finding a little nook in my heart.

             
Roberto watched me. “Would you like to take a coffee?”

             
“Why not?”

He grabbed my arm, swinging it like an enthusiastic child,
and breezed into a bar near the heart of the D’uomo. He introduced me to the handsome baristas as his beautiful American friend. When they learned my name was Dana, they made comments about how I shared the name with one of the famous actresses of Italy. It seemed to give me a status boost to have a name that was well regarded in their culture.

I was grateful for his
generous introductions; he didn’t seem the least bit shy that we’d just met. The whole staff was welcoming and treated me as a friend. The Italian society was like that; as an outsider Milano seemed cold and calculating. I could see how it’d be difficult to visit. But, if you gave
la cittá
a chance, she welcomed you with open arms.

             
Leaning on the counter, he asked, “Dana, where are you from?”

             
“Minnesota.” I ripped open a packet of sweetener. “Are you from Milan?”

             
“No,” he said, taking the package from my hand. “You don’t need this, the cappuccino is sweet as is, and fake sugars are bad for you. So very bad.”

I sipped my cappuccino. It was pretty good plain, I had to admit. The frothy milk warmed my throat.

He nodded his approval. “I am from Florence. La mia mamma still lives there in our house. I come to Milan because of jobs.”

I waited
for him to continue, wiping milk from my upper lip.

“I came here and worked as
a model for Gucci and Armani for two years. I finished there because I didn’t much like it.”

             
“Why not?” I gasped.

             
“I don’t know how you say, but Armani was not always nice to work for, and everyone in fashion is very…” he looked for a word, and drew his hand up and flicked the bottom of his earlobe.

             
“Ah, gay,” I supplied.

             
“Yes, gay,” he confirmed. “It wasn’t much for me. Now I work for companies around the world because I speak five languages. I often travel to Dubai, Paris, many places.”

             
“Wow, I feel like such an underachiever,” I said. “I only speak one point two languages.”

             
“What you mean?” he asked. I shook my head, dismissing the statement. He wasn’t a bit fazed. “My real passion is shoes. I design shoes, and I’m starting my own line. I hope within three years it will be profitable enough I don’t have to work for other people. You understand?”

             
Did I understand?
Of course I understood – and Emilia would just die when I told her.

             
“That’s really amazing,” I said. “But why did you stop to talk to me? I don’t know you from anywhere else.”

             
“Because you smile,” he said. I waited for more, but nothing came. We were quiet as I pondered his words.

             
“See, the people of Milano, they do not smile much. It is busy, busy place and people rush all the time. Rush home, rush to work, they never smile. Even when you talk of happy things, very serious,” he gestured to his mock serious expression. “I do not like this. To find someone like you, someone that has a nice smile, that is rare.”

             
I couldn’t resist smiling my, apparently winning smile, right then and there. He caught the joke this time. “Fate, maybe. All I know is I am happy I meet you. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

             
I nodded, feeling light headed. He bid goodbye to his friends in Italian and swept me out of the bar as quickly as we had arrived. He was holding my hand by the time we got outside.

             
“Give me your number,” he instructed in the blunt way Italians had. I did, and he gave me a hug. “It’s hard to say, but I know I like you a lot already. I cannot wait to see your beautiful smile again.”

             
“Me too,” I said letting my arms slide around his waist. He even smelled nice. Like expensive cotton and sea breeze.