I walk to Trevi Fountain alone so I can find Phoebe Bridgers and Paul Mescal and proposition a threesome. My family’s flight from the States was delayed by a day, so I have nothing to do tonight except walk, which I do, and fuck, which I won’t, but I’m in Rome for the first time so I’m allowed a certain amount of delusion. According to Phoebe’s Instagram story, they were at the Spanish Steps 35 minutes ago. Perhaps they are on a landmark tour and the fountain is next. I put on my Fenty lip gloss and walk. I walk and wonder what it would be like to experience this city on the arm of someone I adore. There are people everywhere on plazas and streetside restaurants and not one of them loves me. It’s been five months since I’ve kissed anyone, since anyone’s kissed me, sustained by café con leches and Mary Oliver poetry while nursing an unrequired crush on my coworker who tattooed a knife on his own finger. The streetlights turn on, and I’m reminded I’m the main character. Italy is tinted blue and I can’t tell where the color is coming from. A handsome man—comically, fictionally handsome—is bringing a bouquet of roses to his lover. He and his three-piece suit are blocking the sidewalk. I am surrounded by loquacious families and teenage girls wearing dresses nicer than mine, tourists in spaghetti straps holding polaroid cameras; most of them speak English. I am grateful for the anonymity my muteness provides. I wonder if other people can clock me as an American by my look alone, or if living in Europe has beaten the obviousness out of me. I am hoping it’s the latter. Weaving my way through the thronged streets, I am more comforted by the traipses of Spanish I hear, the rhythm which has served as the soundtrack of my daily life for the past six months. Exiting Piazza Navona, I see another man with the exact same globular bouquet. I realize they are selling the roses to tourists. Throughout the city, certain things remind me of my old home: baseball caps and chain stores. There is a Lush sandwiched between a gelateria and an ATM. Italy didn’t give us everything . . . Phoebe Bridgers’ “Moon Song,” or cheese curds. Too many beautiful people are holding hands with other beautiful people. It occurs to me I love myself, or I could, if I tried just a little bit harder. I am eager to grow older for no other reason than to have compassion for the version of myself I am now. My cab driver from the airport said it’s tradition to dip bread in wine to end a meal. How do you end a chapter? Trevi Fountain is just a big fountain. Phoebe and Paul aren’t here. I reapply my lip gloss anyway. I want to live forever.
Michaela Brown is a writer and educator living in Bilbao, Spain by way of Kansas. She wants to go everywhere. Find her on Substack @brownmichaela.