In Perugia, the
boy and his Spanish. Two amigos on either side of him. Even I thought it
strange when he asked tu
hablas español in an Italian
accent, as if he already knew, somehow. Calling me his bella, his beautiful
girl. According to romances and my mother I should love him just for the fact.
But for the fact I won’t. Clumsy with the fragments, with this me and the
other left in my plane seat—or maybe she was left at the bottom of the first
espresso with some other residue. Or maybe she was never lost or left, but
managed instead. So when the boy asks for a picture, if anyone has a camera
and makes a click click
side-of-the-mouth, I grin and look away—unsure if it’s us or me that he wants
to frame. I’ll never be scrapbooked, another American girl to catalog. And I’ll
never care for a man who knows nothing
but bella, who knows only translations of beautiful girls. On the train, I consider
you. How you’re everything but Italian, and no more. That’s when I figured us
together for the first time—even found this me and the other finally agree,
apart from and without all the trivialities of travel.
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