Burning The Map. Laura Caldwell

      “How do you like Roma?”

      This is a much less complicated topic, and I give Francesco a smile. “I love it. I went to college here for six months.”

      “Ah. So you know Roma?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs so that one ankle rests on his knee. He strikes me as someone who’s completely comfortable with his body, a trait I envy.

      “I do. I have such wonderful memories of this city.”

      “Why are the memories so good?”

      I think about this for a second. “I was in school and in a new place. Everything was simple.” I close my eyes for a moment, remembering how my life was then—sleeping in, going to a few classes and spending the rest of the day exploring Rome, drinking wine and mooning over my favorite bartender.

      “Things are not simple now?”

      I open my eyes and shift about in my seat. I’m out of practice talking about things like feelings and wants and desires and realities. Somewhere along the way John and I had stopped doing that, too.

      “Life gets more complicated as you get older. There’s more to worry about.” In one swoop, my memories of Rome are replaced with the prospect of fourteen-hour workdays.

      Francesco pauses a second, his eyes never leaving my face. “I think life is what you do with it. How you decide to live it. It can be simple or not.”

      I want to say, “Easy, Pollyanna” but instead I opt for, “It’s not that easy.”

      “Why not?”

      I look at his face. Can he really want to have this conversation with me, some American girl he just met? He leans toward me, and the humid air seems to lighten and swirl with his nearness. I guess he does.

      “It’s not that easy,” I say, “because you have responsibilities as time goes on.” Awaiting me when I get back are loans to pay, my family to deal with. Hell, I’m not even sure what to wear to work. I’ve perfected my student wardrobe—jeans, khakis, two pairs of leather boots (both black, one high-heeled, one low), and nearly every sweater put out by Banana Republic in the last three years. That’s all I’ve really needed. But now, I’m entering the world of pinstripes, pumps and pearls, and I’m clueless. Petty, I know, but this is the stuff I think about.

      “If you are happy and living how you want to live, responsibilities can be a joy, not a job,” Francesco says.

      “You’re reading too much Deepak Chopra.”

      “Scusi?” Francesco cocks an ear toward me, and he looks adorable in that earnest, coffee-shop guy kind of way.

      “Nothing.” I start asking him about his family, his work, what he wants to do with his life. He tells me he’s from a big family and works in his uncle’s restaurant supply business, which is how he knew the café owner and could land us this table. His two best friends are his sisters, both of whom live in Milan and work in the fashion industry. I glance down at my cotton dress as he says this, wishing I’d worn something fantastically hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s going to school at night to get his college degree, he tells me, so that someday he can open his own business. He wants to have something to hand down to his kids.

      Francesco smiles when he says “my children,” as if he knows them already. It reminds me of the dinner I’d had with some high school girlfriends recently, when I’d felt left out listening to them talk about their babies and husbands. They seem to be adults already, worrying about adult things like preschools and mortgages and car seats, while I fret about whether to have another glass of wine and what to wear to John’s holiday party.

      Our conversation continues to flow. I try to seem disinterested so that I don’t give Francesco the idea I’m as fun as Kat, but he intrigues me. He doesn’t seem to have the quick temper of many Italian men, and he says he loves women. Of course, he could be lying through his perfect white teeth—lying being another characteristic Italian-male behavior.

      “Casey,” he says, briefly laying a hand over mine. “I think we could be friends.”

      “The way they’re friends?” I jab a finger at Poster Boy and Kat, who’ve begun full-throttle kissing again.

      He laughs. “Different than that. Better.”

      I’m not sure what he means, so I give sort of an embarrassed guffaw, yet I don’t want to doubt him. I want to believe that this man finds me interesting and stimulating. Logically, I know I shouldn’t need a man to make me feel good about myself, but lately being with John has made me feel like putting on a housedress and curlers and schlepping off to a Tupperware party.

      I shove all thoughts of John out of my mind and try to concentrate on what Francesco is saying. Something about the differences between American and Italian women. There seem to be many.

      At this point, Poster Boy announces that he’s going to give Kat a tour of Vatican City at night.

      Kat beams a smile at me as if this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her, when I know for a fact it’s not. She has hundreds of crazy stories about getting it on with rock stars, sneaking into movie premieres and getting ludicrously expensive gifts from men of all ages. But I’m glad she’s happy, and there’s no denying how hot Poster Boy is.

      “Would you like to come?” Poster Boy asks the rest of the group.

      Francesco barely glances at me before he answers with a definitive, “Sì.”

      “No!” I say, more harshly than I intended. I’m not a big fan of people answering for me, and I’d suddenly envisioned myself in an Italian housedress (okay, it is cuter than the American version), beating out a rug on the side of a dirty pensione, while Francesco yells at me to cook his favorite fusilli arribiata. When I see everyone’s surprised looks, I add in a nicer tone, “I need some sleep.”

      Francesco nods graciously. “I will take Casey to the hotel.”

      I give him a smile, not wanting to ruin his image of me, not wanting to erase the talk we had. I’d actually enjoyed the last hour more than any other in recent memory. Still, I do have a boyfriend at home. “That’s all right. I’ll walk back with Lindsey,” I say.

      “Actually, Case,” Lindsey says, a sheepish grin playing on her mouth, “I think I’ll go check out the Vatican, too.”

      “Oh,” I say, stumped. Sin is usually not the type to follow in Kat’s footsteps. She has little tolerance for men. She gives them a whirl now and again, but her hopes are always too high, or the guy’s ambitions too low. Her one major boyfriend, a charming, curly haired guy named Pete who was as short as she, she’d dumped about two years ago.

      “Sorry,” Lindsey whispers, leaning across the table to squeeze my hand.

      Kat sees the gesture and wakes up from the sexual stare she’s exchanging with Poster Boy. “Are you cool with this, Case?”

      “Sure, sure.” I push back my chair, which makes a screeching sound on the pavement. I tell Francesco I’ll take him up on the ride.

      “We’ll see you in a bit,” Kat says, her hand on Sin’s shoulder.

      I nod, but I don’t expect either of them until dawn.

      On the ride home, I try to remain aloof. Well, as aloof as one can get while straddling the end of a battered moped designed for one, and clutching Francesco’s midsection like a life preserver. He chatters over his shoulder, pointing out famous churches and hotels and mansions.

      “You know, I’ve lived in Rome,” I tell him when we stop at a light. “I know all these places.”

      “Oh,” he says, a mocking tone in his voice. “You know them all? You have been everywhere?”

      “Yep.” I match his tone with a smug voice of my own. I was zealous about seeing everything when I lived