Lucy
When I land in Rome, my first thought is how long it will take me to get through customs and get straight to a hotel to sleep. I’m flying the wrong way around the globe home from a business trip, thanks to a big storm and a bigger airline software issue. As much as I love pasta and exploring a city I somehow haven't really been to, sleep is calling me. I know most airports like the back of my hand from my time living at the Hague and the million business trips in the years that followed. I’ve traveled a ton since I moved to Newport — making partner doesn’t come easy — but I try to be home for heirloom tomato season and our anniversary.
The pilot announces our arrival gate and I roll easily off the plane from business class. There are perks to traveling as much as I do, and upgrades and free champagne are among them. I get through customs, swap my compression socks and running shoes for the leather studded Freda Salvador boots I never travel without, and head to the Uber pickup zone. I exit the airport and a cool breeze hits me. It’s April in Rome, and it feels downright refreshing after a blazing week in Singapore discussing international trade agreements. I check into my next flight, departing tomorrow afternoon, refresh my Uber app as I start scanning the crowd for Matteo, driving a blue Peugeot, when I see a familiar set of broad shoulders. What the hell is he doing here?
James
I’m covered in sweat by the time I reach the Uber pickup area. There are no direct flights from Portland to Rome, so I had a layover in Denver before I attempted to sleep for 10 hours in the middle seat of row 43. I didn’t mean to leave the restaurant in a lurch. I didn’t mean to do any of it, but on my last call with Lucy she sounded so stressed about the change in plans and so desperate to get home that I knew what I had to do. I’ve never closed the restaurant on such short notice, but rain was in the forecast and my team at Esther’s wasn’t mad about an unexpected long weekend. I placed an urgent call to Rebecca to navigate credit card points and put a sign on the door saying “Closed for Family Vacation!” and remembered my grandmother driving us to the beach every summer for a week of family bonding. Living and working in her house everyday still knocks me out sometimes, and I think it always will.
I scan the crowd of travelers in various degrees of sleep deprivation and then I see her: phone in hand, black trousers, wearing a crisp white t-shirt and black trousers, and, lucky for me, a sheer black bra underneath. Knowing her, it was probably her last clean one or else she would have worn something more practical. I grab the sign I sketched somewhere over the Atlantic and, heart pounding, walk towards her. “Have dinner with me, Lucy,” it says, with a drawing of an artichoke and two Roman columns. I couldn’t help myself and googled Italian seasonal produce with the in-flight wifi. I’m buzzing to be in her periphery, breathing the same air as her after too much time thousands of miles apart.
I walk behind her and tap her on the shoulder. She clocks my face and reads the sign. In under five seconds, I see her face shift from concern to shock to glee. The sign falls to the ground as I pick her up, and we kiss like we’re in the ending of Love Actually. “What are you doing here? The restaurant has been so busy,” she asks, punctuating each sentence with a kiss. “I gave everyone a long weekend and finally learned to book a flight with our points. You know I’ve never been to Italy, and I heard it’s artichoke season.” My hands are wrapped around her when her phone vibrates again — our ride is here. La dolce vita awaits.
Lucy
Take it from a frequent traveler: the ride from airports to cities is often a pretty nondescript highway. I feel no guilt about getting a little handsy with my husband in the backseat of our car. I can’t believe he’s here and I can’t believe he pulled off this surprise. We usually talk on the phone at least once a day, but my flight schedule changed at the last minute, allowing him to sneak onto his connection to Rome. Nestled into his shoulder, my exhaustion has completely lifted. In its place is an intoxicating mix of adrenaline and desire.
Our destination is a boutique hotel my former colleague recommended to us in the Monti neighborhood, a central area with some artsy charm within walking distance of the Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. She said they serve breakfast on the roof, which I planned to eat alone as I caught up on emails. This change of plans is infinitely better. I always think of my mom when I visit a new city and imagine walking around with her. She would love the flight attendants with their bright red lipstick and the marks they leave on espresso cups.
After about an hour, Matteo slows to a stop on a narrow cobblestone street and I guide James’ hand out from under my shirt. I hope my Uber rating isn’t tanked but also don’t really care. I thank him in Italian, tip the maximum amount allowed, and hop out. James has our bags handled so I just carry my leather tote. After weeks of traveling solo, the feeling of not having to think about every single detail is deeply gratifying. The hotel’s entrance is narrow and the elevator is broken, which would annoy me at home but is charming here. James gets our bags to our room, which opens with a heavy brass key rather than the sleek electronic key cards I’m used to.
He opens the door and we’re greeted by a bottle of prosecco on ice and a long narrow window overlooking the streets of Rome. I’m dizzy with the history and beauty of this place and the chance to be with James again. The bags are shoved inside, the door closes, and I sit on the edge of the bed. I spy James fiddling with the bottle. Years in the restaurant business mean he’s good at opening even the toughest cork. He removes the cage and pulls out the cork with a satisfying pop, pouring two glasses that he holds in one hand.
He passes me one, his blue eyes meeting mine and I can’t believe he’s really here. We toast, kiss, and sip and suddenly the glasses are on the floor and our limbs are intertwined on the bed. He slides off my pants and sheer black cotton thong and kneels before me. He teases me, kissing and tracing his fingertips along my inner thighs until I’m squirming against the crisp hotel sheets. Finally, he gives me what I want, licking me from top to bottom before zeroing in on my clit. “It was worth flying almost 6,000 miles in row 43 for this,” is what I hear when he finally comes up for air.
James
Three orgasms later (two for her, one for me), we’re starving and I know in my bones this trip was worth it. Distance is hard, and even though I’ve gotten used to it, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Lucy every time she leaves. I track all her flights on a magnetic whiteboard in the kitchen, but this was the first time I’ve pulled off something like this. We decide that showering will only slow us down, so we embrace the post-coital sweat, pull our clothes back on, and leave the hotel.
For the first time all day, I really take in what’s around me. At the bottom of the street is the Colosseum glowing in the moonlight. At every corner, people sit outside sipping glasses of wine. Restaurants are bustling and every building makes me feel like a speck of dust, just arrived on Earth, in comparison to the history they hold. I feel like a kid in history class and remember the Gladiator DVD I watched religiously. Travel is something I'm still getting used to, but Rome so far makes me feel reverent. And hungry. And horny. I’m staring at the moon humming Frank Sinatra like a true tourist when Lucy grabs my hand and pulls me around a corner.
Lucy
I drag James along with me, his eyes wide. “My coworker Gillian used to have a client in Rome when she was at the New York office and said we have to come here. Do you trust me?” He nods and we push open the door to Al Vino a Vino, a wine bar packed with locals where old bottles decorate the walls. We grab a table at the bar and my makeshift Italian gets us two glasses of an orange wine from Sicily along with some olives. “Grazie,” I tell our bartender, when James interrupts and orders the artichokes and the panzanella. “It’s artichoke season”, he says, so this trip is about menu research, allegedly.
We clink glasses, our faces inches from one another and my shoulders start to relax for the first time in weeks. I love my job and pinch myself when I walk into courts and boardrooms around the world. I know I’m making a difference. But nothing compares to the calm I get around James. I knew it from our first meeting, when I confessed a huge breakdown I had earlier that day to him. Before I met him, I cried about once in a decade. Now, I find myself tearing up as I spear an olive and linger in his gaze in this candlelit wine bar. How lucky are we that we found each other and found our way to each other, in Rome of all places?
James
Okay, what is Italy putting in its vegetables? Or not putting in them, most likely? I’m trying not to go on a rant about flavor profiles but it’s on the tip of my tongue. Everything tastes more like itself here. The panzanella is full of juicy tomatoes and red onion, topped with burrata and a thick, syrupy balsamic and it’s all soaked up by the crisp toasted bread. Panzanella started as cucina povera, the food of the poor, and I can already tell this will find a way to the seasonal menu at Esther’s. My grandmother would definitely have approved.
The artichokes are prepared alla giudia, fried in the Jewish style, and they’re more flavorful and delicate than any I’ve ever tried. I make eye contact with Lucy as she sucks some of the artichoke off its leaf. After all these years, it’s enough to get me hard and she can tell. I push her hair back from her face where it’s fallen and am grateful she kept on the black bra that peeks through her shirt.
Next to me, Lucy sips the last of her wine. Is she tired and ready to sleep? I wouldn’t blame her after the timezones she’s crossed. She glances around the bar, which has started to empty out. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announces into my ear. Even though she spent most of the day in airports, she still smells like her. I know what’s coming next and my body does too, “And you should come too.” We’ve played this game before, at the Hague and in Portland, and at the record bar that time we went to Tokyo. I’m no fool. I wait about 30 seconds, signal for the check and down my wine in a single gulp. Then I make a beeline for the cramped Italian bathroom where I know untold pleasures await.
Lucy
By the time James gets to the bathroom, it feels like I’ve been waiting forever, even though I know it’s only been five minutes, max. I’m wetter than I’ve been in weeks waiting for him and I sneak a hand down my underwear in the meantime. I hear a knock at the door and know it’s him. I step aside to let him inside and we connect, everywhere, all at once. I grab for him and he grabs for me and suddenly I’m on my knees on ancient stone tiles in a cramped wine bar bathroom in Rome, with my favorite person’s dick in my mouth. Did not have that on my bingo card when I woke up today. I get lost in it and next thing I know he’s groaning and reaching for me. I’m suddenly bent over the sink and I accidentally notice how greasy my hair looks in the antique mirror. Another thrust and his thumb pressing on me evaporates that thought and we come together as silently as possible, given the circumstances…
We catch our breaths and clean up, giggling together into the mirror. I make us take a selfie which he thinks is silly but will appreciate later. As I rearrange my clothes, I turn to him and ask, “Are you still hungry? I heard there’s a killer cacio e pepe around the corner.” Without missing a beat, he responds with a wink, ‘“I could always eat more. And I heard the Trevi fountain is best in the middle of the night.” The boy I met at my law school graduation who couldn’t wait to be back in his hometown now sounds beyond comfortable wandering the streets of Rome by night. This really is what dreams are made of.
