Italian King by Zoe Beth Geller
Juliet
Ilove the energetic vibe of living in Florence. Not to say that I don’t love relaxing at home in the country, but I prefer city life. I never would have been happy had I stayed at home and not struck out on my own.
I’m over living in the dorms, but at the same time, the cost of living is high and I don’t know how I can afford to get an apartment.
Obviously, I’d have to share it with someone and get a job, which would suck. I have loads of experience waitressing, and with all the tourists, I’d easily find a job. But I’m stubborn. I don’t want to take time away from my art.
I work until my wrists are sore and my tired eyes are just slits, making tiny strokes with my charcoal pencil as I work on yet another project. My sketch pad is filling up and to me that’s success. I live, eat, and breathe art, and walking around Florence, where it’s embedded in every aspect of our life, is amazing.
The night rain brings humidity and I turn on the small unit that gives us cold air to make the small dorm bearable. Hotels here usually have power to the air connected to the light switch and the temperature gauges locked under a plexiglass cover because electricity is so expensive, but thankfully, our university hasn’t caught on to that idea yet. I know it’s coming. Until then, I’ll enjoy the coldest room I can get.
I sigh, unable to get the face right on the sketch I’m working on. It’s so much easier getting the angles of the jawline right when I have a picture to follow. I’m not good at imagining faces and drawing them.
I finish penciling in the outline and Ava walks over, fresh out of the shower with her hair up in a towel.
“Whoa, that’s the dude from yesterday. Mr. Sexy Eyes.”
“What?”
“Remember the hottie standing next to the dean yesterday? That’s him,” she squeals. “I think you have a crush.”
“Thuff.” I make a disapproving sound that tells her just how I feel about that. “No way,” I point to the guy on my desk. “That’s not him.”
She snickers.
I examine the sketch again.
“Fuck.”
“See, told ya.”
“I’ve never done that before. I can’t make up faces. I mean, I didn’t even really talk to him or anything. How can that be?”
“Maybe he’s your guy?”
“He was dark and mysterious for sure,” and I’m not sure what to do with my sketch now. To be honest, I’m a bit freaked out.
“Relax.” She takes the towel off her head and bends forward, flipping her hair forward and uses the towel to scrunch it to making it curl without frizzing. “You’ll probably never see him again. I wonder who he is. I mean, if he knows the dean, he’s got to be somebody, right?”
“Probably.” She’s new here and she doesn’t know that money has a way of fluttering around Florence since the beginning of time without many questions asked.
My mind drifts back to the courtyard, remembering I was rather quiet, even for me.
“I wonder who you are, Mr. Sexy Eyes,” I say as I hold the paper at arm’s length to take it in with a fresh look. “He really was incredibly good looking.”
“Oh, hell yes,” Ava agrees as she flips herself upright and lets her damp hair fall naturally around her face. “I’d do him.”
“Ava!” I shouldn’t be shocked. It seems like nowadays people are lonely and it’s getting harder to meet nice guys to date. The internet has made it easier to meet people, but not necessarily the right people.
“What? We have this game in the States, called Marry, Shag, Kill.”
My jaw drops. It sounds so barbaric.
“We don’t really kill them, it’s just a silly game,” she adds after she hears me gasp in surprise.
This college experience is sure broadening my world experience, but I don’t think it’s in ways my parents would appreciate.
“Wow, okay, so the guy yesterday?”
“Definitely Shag,” she decides as she fluffs up her curls with her fingertips and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. “Yes, fuckable, many times over.” She turns to me. “You?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know, I’ve only been with a few guys,” I blush.
“Wow, that’s unusual. I mean, there was a time in the States when girls wore promise rings, vowing to remain virgins until they got married. But let me tell you, I’m so fucking glad that shit was done before I became a teenager.”
I’ve never heard of any of this, and it reinforces my notion that Americans are a little . . . different.
“Wow, who promises such things? Teenagers? Really?”
“Well, each generation is different. I’m just glad it wasn’t my generation because I love sex. And speaking of sex, I have a lunch date with that hottie in our afternoon class.”
Of course, she does. I thought Mr. Sexy Eyes was hot too, I’d do him. I had a few hookups last year, but the well has been dry for some time. I’m not sure why the hookups didn’t lead to more.
Maybe it’s just the fact that Italian men have a short attention span and they’re always on to the next conquest. Plus, with all the foreign women coming here now, they see us as plain and ordinary, like vanilla flavored gelato.
Why settle for vanilla when you can have a different flavor every night? Ava pulls out some clothes and lays two outfits on her bed, trying to choose.
“Where are you going for lunch?”
“He’s showing me around the Uffizi, then we’re eating in the café at the top.”
“Nice,” I agree with envy, “the view from there is amazing.”
“I hope so, but to be honest, I think the view of my tour guide will be all I’m looking at.”
I make my way to her bed. “The outfit on the right, red is for passion.”
She surprises me with a hug. “You’re the best.”
“No problem,” I reply, deciding that I need to find something to do today, like finding some new clothes.
Ava has so many trendy outfits, my wardrobe pales in comparison. Maybe if I got some newer styles, I’d have the college guys asking me out. It wouldn’t hurt to window shop.
Yeah, I’ll go out and look in the fancy shops today, and if I like something, I’ll put it on my credit card. Then I’ll have to get a job to pay it off. I know it’s wrong, but what better motivation than to shop first? Besides, I doubt I’ll find anything that looks nearly as cute on me as the red minidress Ava is wearing, the one that screams ‘make love to me now’.
Ava turns so I can zip up the back of her dress, then turns back again so I can see.
“You look fantastic.”
“Thanks. So, what are you doing today?”
“I think I’ll check out the clothing shops. Standing next to you makes me feel as plain as . . . I don’t know. Plain.”
Ava stares at me, her mouth agape. “Oh my god, don’t say that! You’re gorgeous, your hair is so dark and shiny.” She runs her fingers though the ends of my hair. “You’re like two sizes smaller than me and can rock a pair of skinny jeans. I can’t even get them over my ass. You just need to look at men like you want them. You don’t really look at guys, you know, look in their eyes.”
“I don’t feel like they see me, for me,” I falter, and she’s right, I have a bad habit of avoiding men and I don’t understand it. I like guys.
“It’s easy to fix. Don’t go bankrupt today.”
“I know a few places that aren’t tourist traps.” I smile.
“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles as she sits, applying makeup in front of a mirror with special lighting.
“We’ll see. I might get a job. I saved up a lot working at my parents’ restaurant, but I’m running out of money and I don’t want my parents to buy my clothes and stuff.”
“That’s good of you. Where I’m from, kids expect it.”
“Lots here do too, but I’m not that way.” I close my sketchpad and put my supplies back in their boxes.
I put on a pair of low heels, so I feel sexier in my jeans, before grabbing my purse that holds essentials and slide my cell phone inside next to my small wallet.
She looks up from applying the lip liner. “Have fun, I’ll see ya tonight . . . probably.”
“Have a good time.” I scoot out the door.
The streets still look wet from the rain and noisy Vespas zip around like flies at a picnic. They’re still the cheapest form of personal transportation and I swear they outnumber the people.
I think about where I’d like to work and wonder if I’d get a discount working in a clothing store. Then again, most sell high-end designers who, even with a discount, are still unaffordable. I have loads of waitress and restaurant experience and I’m personable, so maybe I’ll fill out applications at a few restaurants if I see that they’re hiring.
The tweeting birds mock me. It’s mating season for them, and it seems to be the same for everyone except me. Mr. Sexy Eyes comes to mind, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. He looked older, yeah, definitely older. Maybe that’s my problem. Suddenly occurs to me. I’m looking to date men my own age, and maybe that’s a mistake.
I need to expand my horizons. I’m guilty of looking at guys who are goofing off and I feel like I’m their mother, not their peer. It probably wouldn’t hurt to smile more and wear a shorter dress. You’re only young once and my body won’t look this good forever.