Chapter 3 Strawberry Love #2
“What?” Harold asked, stubbing out his only half-finished cigarette into the marble ashtray. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“What was I saying?”
“Well,” he started, reaching for the hand sanitizer in his pocket, smoke still rising from the ashtray. He squeezed out a dime of gel and smoothed it into his hands. “You were saying a lot of things.”
“That’s the third time you’ve gone for the sanitizer since we’ve been sitting here.”
He shrugged and took an olive from the bowl. “You can never be too careful.”
Her face grew serious. “Anyway, you’re not listening to me.”
The only problem with dating such a smart girl was that she could see right through him.
With the olive now traveling south down his throat, he said, “I’m distracted by work stuff, that’s all. I have a new account in Beijing that wants me to build their backend for a new line of watches, and they’re proving to be difficult to work with. Kept me up all night.”
Cooling her offense, she poured a handful of peanuts into her palm, then tossed a few into her mouth.
“And another guy in Copenhagen who’s driving me crazy,” he added. “Doesn’t want to pay his bills. I might have to go up and see him.”
She finished chewing, then: “Are you going to go beat him up?”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe one day you’ll explain to me what you do. Because I have no idea.”
Harold washed the olive down with a long sip of his spritz and signaled the server for another round.
How could they make money selling six-euro drinks, especially when so many of these restaurants served them with free snacks?
If only it were this way back in Denver, but an Aperol spritz would cost closer to twenty bucks.
No wonder Americans didn’t sit around for long; they couldn’t afford it!
“Computer stuff, my dear. Nothing worth talking about. A way to pay the bills so I can chase you across the world. Anyway, what were you saying? Forgive me.”
“I was talking about walking. We’re not hitting our ten thousand steps. That’s what you’re supposed to do in Europe. Walk. I feel like you always have an excuse.”
Looking at the Apple Watch he’d bought at her encouragement, and ignoring yet another Duolingo notification, he said, “Why walk? Tha . . . tha . . . that’s what taxis are for? Walking is for horses and—”
“Walking is the way you experience the world.”
The Giblerator knew when he’d been beat. “Fine, then, let’s walk more tomorrow. Ten thousand steps it is. In the meantime, I got you something.” He reached into the leather man bag, or murse, she’d bought him and drew out a small brown box wrapped with an ivory bow.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her frustration fading at the sight of a potential gift.
“To show you that even when I’m not paying attention, you’re on my mind.”
She reached for it with a skeptical smile.
“C’mon, open it.” He couldn’t believe how much joy he found in giving her gifts.
Alice untied the bow and lifted the top of the box; her mouth fell open.
“They’re gorgeous,” she said, beaming at the sight of the overpriced gold earrings he’d bought her from the Quadrilatero market.
If he was being honest, he’d bought them with his mother’s money, but he’d pay back every cent he’d been borrowing.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”
He blew her a kiss across the table, then did his best to spit out, “Anch’io ti voglio bene.” And there you go, Duolingo. One step at a time.
While basking in the glow of their union, his mind returned to what had happened in Denver, the land of overpriced everything.
It was almost hard to believe that only a short time ago, he’d been a barista at a somewhat hip coffee shop, barely making a living wage and staying with his mom.
His story had changed in an instant, the moment Alice had waltzed in.
Never had he approached a strange girl before, but love can give you courage where there is none.
Taking off his apron, he’d slid up next to her and started a lie that had grown every day since.
Wincing at the truth, he pinched himself in the thigh to keep his focus here, where time slowed and fairy tales came true.
Harold’s phone alarm woke him at two in the morning, which is when he got online to “start his day.” He snuck out of bed, dressed, and crossed the apartment to the living room, then slipped out onto the Juliet balcony where Alice kept a pot of sun-loving herbs.
If she weren’t perfect already, she also happened to have a green thumb and was a wonderful cook.
Aside from the construction underway, Via Giulia, their narrow cobblestone street, was as alluring as any in the city.
The stucco buildings were various warm shades of terra-cotta.
Standard doorways had been cut into centuries-old wooden doors that were large enough to ride horses through.
Tasteful works of graffiti revealed themselves when the shop owners pulled down the metal doors for the night.
Plants in pots of various primary colors flanked many of the entrances. English ivy cascaded down the walls.
Like most of Bologna, the sidewalks were covered by porticoes that had been built in the Middle Ages as a way to extend living space.
According to Alice, Bologna had forty kilometers of porticoes, some of which rose several stories high, each featuring unique, elaborate arches that kept tourists walking with their heads angled upward in awe.
They created a wonderful series of tunnels, these porticoed sidewalks.
You could walk throughout the city under the cover of these works of art and avoid the harsh summer sun and the winter rains.
Their balcony protruded from one of the porticoes.
Directly below them was an English bookstore.
To the right was a fiorista, a pasticceria, and Sorso Sospetto, the enoteca.
The other direction led to an art gallery, a couple of clothing boutiques, and a cobbler.
Only scooters and the smallest of cars could get through, so it was mostly foot traffic that passed by, especially this time of night.
The last of the late-night warriors were strolling by in happy clusters, many of them singing late-night songs.