I’m walking through Porta Palazzo. From Monday to Saturday, Porta Palazzo is the largest public market in Europe. Gypsies are trying to seduce middle-aged men who are busy sitting along the street curbs drinking beer, illegal immigrants are throwing keychains and selfie sticks in front of your face, and old babas are squatting next to vegetable stands selling their homemade cookies.
On Sunday, when the market is closed and the squashed tomatoes and mandarin oranges have already been power washed off of the streets – a place once filled with fresh vegetation are now used by crack addicts to shoot up by parked cars and groups of men hanging along the sidewalks, discussing politics and making animal noises at whatever walks by – it’s amazing how many impressionists live in the area.
It’s a Sunday today.
I’m heading to the grocery store after doing my daily walk around the city center. I didn’t see much, there were a mediocre street juggler and a gardening festival – which sounds lovely until you’ve walked by 300 of the same flowers with every couple over the age of eighty-five.
I’m walking through Porta Palazzo, a headphone in one ear – there’s no music playing. I hear the footsteps of someone running behind me, I keep walking.
“Scuza mi!” the voice yells out.
I turn around and remove the headphone from my ear.
“Si?” I reply.
The man put his hands on his knees and starting panting. He gestures for me to hold on a moment, and wipes his forehead. I wait. He looks up at me, smiling. The man is tall and slightly muscular. You can tell he does some sort of physical activity – my bet is that he’s a swimmer. He’s wearing dark denim jeans, a tight blue t-shirt with a light denim vest overtop. His hair is gelled and combed back, and though he’s smiling, his eyes are covered by a pair of aviator sunglasses.
I quickly look down at my shoes. I resemble that of a German hiker. I’m wearing workout pants, neon green trainers with mismatched socks and an oversized denim jacket which I bought at the market for 1 euro. My hair is in a bun, and I’m fairly certain I forgot to wash my face this morning.
He says something incomprehensible and puts his hand out towards me.
I shake his hand and smile, “no parle Italiano”, and grab one of my headphones.
“Ah, you don’t speak Italian. I’m sorry,” he says regaining his breath, “I saw you from across the square, and I’m like, wow,” he replicates the sound of a bomb going off simultaneously throwing his hands in the air, “it would be an honor if you would come to have a coffee with me…or tea – or gelato, what–whatever you want.”
I look at him for a moment. I gesture at his eyes, he says “aha, sorry” and takes off his sunglasses. I’ve come to learn that Italian men are smooth talkers, however, they haven’t yet perfected the ability to mask the bullshit that is imprinted in their retinas.
“There’s a cafe right here,” I point across the street to some dingy local joint.
“Yes! Wow, great!” he says enthusiastically.
We’re sitting at an Arabic cafe, sipping on tea. I’m sitting on a wooden bench, he’s sitting across from me. We end up discussing Italian culture and international politics. I ask him about his family, he says that both his parents are dead – his mother died from kidney cancer and he doesn’t mention his father. We finish drinking our tea and leave the cafe.
He gives me a hug goodbye that lasts a solid couple of minutes. I hug him back.
“What cologne are you wearing?” I ask as we separate from the embrace.
“Jean-Paul Gaultier,” he replies.
“It smells great”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that’s a proper cologne.”
We pause for a moment.
“I want to say, thank you for coming with me for a drink, it was very sincere and you made my day so happy,” he says, blushing. He then asks if I can take his number. I take his number and save it into my phone. I’m not going to call him.
I turn the corner and head down a cobblestone street. I’m looking down, untangling my headphones. I hear heavy breathing up ahead, I quickly look up and freeze in my place. There’s a pure-white bull standing in front of me. This isn’t a code word – when I say bull, I mean an actual male cow.
I look around slowly. There’s no one on the street but I can hear brass music playing in the not-so-far distance.
It’s me and the bull, alone on a cobblestone street.
His horns are pointing at my chest as he breathes aggressively.
What do I do, what do I do, what do I do, I think to myself. The myth of Europa comes to my mind, I try to think of something else – I’ve read that story before, I’m not ready for that type of commitment. An imagine of Bear Grylls comes as a replacement. Basically, I have two options: to wrangle, kill and eat the bull or be its bitch.
I lower my head, keeping my eyes on his chest, watching his heartbeat pump through his veins. Thump-thump/thump-thump/thump-thump.
I slowly lower myself to the ground, kneeling in front of the bull. I wrap my hands around my neck.
“Fuck, this is such a stupid way to die,” I mumble to myself. I become sad as I realize that my emotional status when dying will be a lack of enthusiasm mixed with slight disappointment.
I’m not noticing the brass music becoming louder, I’m too busy thinking if I have any sort of ID on me – I do – it’s my driver’s license which was taken 7 am one morning and the lighting makes it look like I have a unibrow. I sigh to myself and zone myself back into current time. I see an Italian brass band turning the corner, playing an overly fluffy marching melody – it’s hurting my ears. They’re wearing navy blue uniforms with gold frills on the shoulders. The bull has already walked past me and the brass band heads towards me, making their way around me.
I continue kneeling on the ground. The brass band continues playing as they walk around me. The last couple members of the brass band pass me by, I get up, brush the pebbles that are stuck to my knees, and walk to the grocery store.
I had ravioli with pesto sauce.
thelonelyserb 