19. Il colosseo
19
Il colosseo
The Collosseum
Bridget
R ome in November has a certain charm to it. The streets are quiet, the air is crisp, and the sun’s just warm enough to keep the chill at bay. Omar and I are wrapped up in jackets; he is wearing one of these sporty beanies and I have a thick scarf wrapped around me. We are walking side by side, our breath puffing out in little clouds; we look like one of these autumn vibe social media posts. Despite the cooler weather the city still buzzes with life, scooters weaving through the narrow streets and tourists snapping photos of everything they see.
“Bloody hell, it’s massive,” I say, staring up at the ancient stone walls of the Colosseum. The pictures don’t do it justice—it’s even more impressive in person. “Do you think we’re allowed to take bits of it home as souvenirs?”
Omar chuckles next to me. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just stick a chunk in my rucksack and hope no one notices.”
I elbow him lightly. “Come on, it’s not like they’re using all of it anymore.”
“Right. You, me, and a brick from the Colosseum… and a fine from the Carabinieri. Perfect holiday memory.” He smirks, glancing down at me. “Want me to grab some cobblestones while I’m at it?”
I grin. “Tempting but I’ll pass. I’ve already stubbed my toe on one, and that’s enough of a memory. And I’m pretty sure the police here have better things to do than to fine us.”
Omar, the know-it-all, pulls his phone out of his pocket, types something and then holds out an article about an American who was fined twenty thousand Euros for stealing a piece of the Colosseum.
“Still want a souvenir?” he smirks.
“I would have believed you without Google.” I stick my tongue out at him and he shakes his head, laughing.
We head towards the entrance, our shoes echoing on the uneven stones beneath our feet. I’m glad I didn’t go for sandals in this weather—my trusty trainers are doing the job just fine. The cold air nips at my cheeks but the excitement of being here keeps me warm. I glance over at Omar, who’s looking ridiculously good in his sports jacket and cargo trousers, like he’s stepped out of a bloody GQ ad.
“Stop staring,” he says without looking at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
I scoff. “I’m not staring. I’m just… appreciating the architecture.”
“Right,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “and which part of the Colosseum is my face again?”
“The part that’s falling apart but still looks good from a distance,” I shoot back.
A deep belly laugh erupts from Omar. “Cheeky.”
As we step inside the Colosseum the world seems to shift. The sounds of the city fade, replaced by the quiet hum of history. Knowing that so many people once stood where we’re standing now, watching gladiators fight, crowds cheering is strange. It feels… surreal.
“This place is incredible,” I whisper, my voice echoing slightly in the stone corridors.
“Not bad,” Omar says, glancing around. “Could use a bit of patching up though. Maybe some central heating.”
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the ancient walls. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re just waiting for the right builder.”
We wander along the corridor, the crisp November air following us through the open archways. It’s quieter than I expected which makes it feel more intimate, like we’ve stumbled upon a hidden secret. Every now and then our hands brush, and each time it sends a little jolt through me like I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are. When we’re in the bedroom together we’re insatiable, but when we’re out in the city we’re flirty and shy like a couple on their first date, and I don’t know which part of this I lov—enjoy more.
We stop in front of the open arena, looking down at the ruins below. Omar pulls me closer, his arm slipping around my waist. I glance up at him and he’s already looking at me, his dark eyes soft and warm.
“You cold?” he asks, his voice low.
I shake my head, though my cheeks feel a little flushed and not from the weather. “Nope. No, on the contrary.”
His lips quirk into a half-smile and I can see a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good. Can’t have you freezing to death in the middle of the Colosseum.”
“Very heroic of you,” I say, leaning into him. “Saving me from a Roman winter.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Someone’s got to do it.”
We stand there for a moment just enjoying the view, the autumn air, the closeness. I tilt my head up just as Omar’s leaning down, his face just inches from mine. I feel my heart pick up pace, my pulse quickening as his lips hover near mine.
He gently brushes a piece of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering on my skin, and I feel the heat rising in my chest despite the cool air around us. His eyes flick to my lips, and just like that, everything else falls away—the tourists, the cold, the Colosseum itself.
He leans in, and as his lips touch mine it’s like the world stops. The kiss is soft and slow, the kind that makes your knees feel a bit wobbly and your head a little light. I lean into him, my hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
When he pulls back his forehead rests against mine, and I can’t help but smile.
“Definitely the best way to explore Roman history ever,” I murmur.
Omar grins, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Got to make it memorable, right?”
“You’re doing a decent job of it,” I admit with a cheeky smile.
We spend the next hour wandering around the Colosseum, snapping pictures, sneaking in a few more kisses, and laughing at how ridiculous we look in the photos. Omar keeps trying to act all serious but he cracks every time I pull a face.
“Come on, act like a gladiator!” I tease, holding up my phone for another shot.
Omar crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes in a mock-serious expression. “Is that what you wanted?”
“Perfect,” I laugh, snapping the picture. “You look terrifying.”
“Good,” he says with a smirk. “That’s the goal.”
The sun’s beginning to dip as we leave the Colosseum, casting a golden glow over the square. I spot a group of fake Roman soldiers standing by the entrance, fully decked out in costumes, helmets gleaming in the fading light.
“Ooh, Omar, look!” I say, grabbing his arm. “We’ve got to get a picture with them.”
He rolls his eyes. “Really? You want a photo with those guys? I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for them to be there taking money of tourists.”
“Who’s talking about money? Look, there’s tons of them. Must be some event or something. Come on.”
“I’m not sure—"
“But I am,” I say, dragging him towards the nearest soldier. “It’s Rome, you’ve got to embrace the tourist stuff.”
The soldier flashes me a grin as I approach. “Ah, bella! You want a picture with a real Roman?”
I laugh. “Real Roman, sure. Let’s do it.”
I hand Omar my phone, and he sighs dramatically as he lines up the shot. “Alright, let’s make this quick.”
The soldier puts his arm around me, striking a dramatic pose with his fake sword. “Say ‘Caesar’!”
“Caesar!” I giggle, and just as Omar snaps the picture, the soldier leans in and plants a cheeky kiss on my cheek.
I blink, surprised, and burst out laughing. “Oi! No one said anything about kisses!” I had an encounter with an Italian stallion and I think I stick to British-Lebanese men for now.
The soldier just winks at me. “When in Rome, bella.” I wave at them as they walk off towards a larger group of fake soldiers. I should have asked them what the event was.
I head over to Omar, who’s standing with the phone in his hand, his jaw tight. I take the mobile from him, glancing at the picture. “We look brilliant!”
“Yeah, fantastic,” he mutters, not even glancing at the photo. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his expression is tense.
I nudge him playfully. “What’s up with you? You jealous of the fake Roman soldier?”
He scoffs, though it’s clear he’s trying to hide his annoyance.
I raise an eyebrow, grinning. “Oh, come on. You are!”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. Maybe a little.”
I laugh, slipping my arms around his waist. “Omar, I’m pretty sure I’m not the first tourist he’s kissed. He probably does it a hundred times a day.”
“Yeah well, I still didn’t like it,” he grumbles, though I can see the corner of his mouth twitching.
I lean up, kissing his jaw. “You know you’re the only one I want kissing me, right?”
His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. “I better be.”
I grin up at him. “Want me to prove it?”
He laughs, shaking his head, but leans down and kisses me anyway, this time not holding back. When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless.
“There,” he says with a smirk.
“I thought I was supposed to prove it to you?” I laugh as we start walking again, hand in hand. I get butterflies when his fingers lock with mine. Is that normal for holiday flings?
“Next stop?” Omar asks, glancing at me.
I think for a second. “Pizza. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he agrees with a grin.
We stroll through the Roman streets, the Colosseum fading behind us, and I can’t help but think that despite the cheeky Roman soldier, it’s been the perfect day. And with pizza on the way it’s about to get even better.