And this was how Marcello played tour guide. We lost ourselves in the city, wandering wherever we wished, with me asking occasional questions and him answering, more often than not with a story accompanying. I took everything in, tried to take mental pictures at every turn, willing myself to remember so that I could re-create it later on. Even the roofs of the surrounding buildings were something I never wanted to forget. Slate gray, brick red, some were tile, some were shingle, nothing matched so everything matched. And the doors were something else that I found myself enamored of here. Santorini blue, vermillion, and evergreen—this world was saturated with color.
We eventually headed down toward the Tiber, where we walked along the tree-lined sidewalk and enjoyed the breeze coming off the river.
“Left, right, or straight?” he asked when we came upon a magnificent stone bridge filled with foot traffic.
I stood in front of one of the ornately carved pillars to read the marker: Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. It was something that I was growing to adore about the city. Everything had a name and not just Blah Blah Street or Someone Circle. Beautiful, historic names that I butchered with my pronunciation, but I loved hearing him teach me what I was doing wrong.
“Say it again?” I asked, pointing up to the bridge’s oxidized plaque.
“Ponte Vittorio Emanuele.” He embellished the syllables for my benefit. Either because he genuinely wanted me to learn how to say it properly, or more likely, because he knew his accent made me swoony.
“Why angels?” I pointed to the top of the great stone plinth where an angel held a shield and raised a sword proudly.
“These are for victory. They are named for Victoria, Roman goddess for triumph in battle. You will find them all over the city; jewelry, money, architecture. At one time she was worshipped on one of the Seven Hills.”
In that moment, it didn’t matter what he was talking about, I just wanted him to keep talking, and I told him as much.
And just as I requested, Marcello explained why each bridge was named what it was, and how the streets that intersected all had something to do with the bridge and the town. Each little nook had its own bit of history. It was fascinating and intoxicating listening to him.
We continued along the Tiber, the streets tree lined and crowded with couples, families, runners, tourists, and locals alike, out and about enjoying their city. Another strong breeze whipped through, giving me the perfect opportunity to lean into him for warmth. He casually slung his arm over my shoulders as he told me we were about to pass Circus Maximus.
“Oh, you mean like Gladiator? I love that movie.” I sighed.
“You are teasing me?”
“No! You’ve seen it, right? Russell Crowe kicking ass in the Colosseum? So hot.”
He harrumphed. “Historically inaccurate.”
I laughed, poking his side when he scowled. “Don’t be jealous. Russell has nothing on you. Show me more of your Rome.”
He did just that. We continued to wander, making decisions about where to go on a whim, wherever we wanted to go.
When I mentioned feeling a bit hungry, he bought me a bag full of little fried fish tossed with lemon and salt. Delicious.
I wasn’t warmed by just the beautiful weather, but by him; how could I not be? His bolder-than-life presence, the confidence that didn’t fade a day in the years since we were together. When he caught me staring, his chest puffed up in such a self-satisfied way I couldn’t help but smile.
All afternoon he’d been careful not to get too close to me. Only an occasional shoulder brush or maybe his hand in the small of back to steer me around something, but always a respectable arm’s length. A few times I’d feel his hand accidentally brush mine, and then it would flex and get tucked into his pocket.
As the light began changing to something more akin to candle glow, it became harder and harder to ignore the powerful draw that was still between us. That string was still there tethering me, us, to the memories of Barcelona.
I felt an invisible hand at my back nudging me toward him. It was like the walls behind us were pushing us together. I wouldn’t be backing away as I had last night.
“Marcello?” I asked, reaching out to touch his forearm. I loved the feeling of the muscles tensing. His hand flexed into a fist before laying across mine. This was the first time he purposely touched me, and even though it was innocent, nothing about it felt that way.
He was struggling. His eyebrows bunched and his eyes went to my hand on his arm, studying it. The right side of his mouth quirked up, and I was desperate to know what he was thinking about in that second.
He nodded, swallowed hard, and then he took a step back this time.
“Let us walk a bit more. I want you to see something before it gets too dark,” he said, pointing in the direction of the less-crowded cross street.
“Tell me how many stamps you have in your passport,” he asked suddenly as we rounded a corner.
“Stamps?”
“You had so many plans for traveling the world—you couldn’t wait to fill all those blank pages up with stamps. So tell me all about the places you’ve been since you left Spain. I’ve been talking for hours now, it’s your turn.”
I remembered the conversation. We were in bed—where most of our deep conversations took place—and I used his torso as a map of the world. Each kiss I placed on his body was a country I planned to visit. To explore their lives, the culture. The art.
“Oh. Well . . .” I stalled to snap a photo of the sunset behind the ancient amphitheater. It’d make for a beautiful sketch later.