​I don’t believe in soulmates. I’ve always loved the idea but I know they aren’t real. I have been all around the world and I can see the me and the him in every city I’ve ever explored. I close my eyes and I’m hand-in-hand with an investment broker on Wall Street, avid, thirsty, and career-driven with ecru pantsuits, understated statement pieces and a closet full of last season’s Jimmy Choos, then there’s the me with a broke artist living a kind of penniless perfection in Williamsburg, eating greasy Chinese takeout with yesterday’s chopsticks. I would wear overalls and plastic-rimmed glasses and braided crowns for days at a time and I’d be euphorically happy. And he'd paint my portraits and the portraits of other girls and we'd get in screaming, paint-throwing arguments and then make the kind of messy love that is art itself. Or I could have stayed in Berlin for more than one night, stayed with that trilingual German boy who wore scarves and thrift-store leather jackets with such ease and spent our evenings attending French poetry slams and doing whatever young, European intellectuals do which probably involves getting high on weed and philosophical ideations. But then what if I had stayed in the country I was born in, married a wheat farmer and sipped sweet tea on wraparound porches, wrapped in flannel plaid blankets. I would have been happy there as much as in Berlin and Williamsburg and Wall Street because I’m sure my soul was never looking for its mate, it was just seeking the past life it remembered the most and what it could never forget, despite a thousand lives, was the warmth of the Italian sun and the arms of a green-eyed, olive-skinned boy with the Mediterranean in his dark hair and in his veins.  

Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the individual posts in the Creative Writing category.
​
Most recent posts:
Creative Writing: The Romantics (Non-Fiction)
Creative Writing: All the Sunsets
Creative Writing: Happier
​Creative Writing: Whiskey 
​Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy 
​Creative Writing: Call Me Baby 
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect 
 
In the eBook:
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily
​

I rushed onto the plane in three-inch wedges, a flowery yellow wrap dress that was near-falling-off, and a Kate Spade crab purse trailing behind me. My hair was stuck to the sweat on my neck and back and I was anything but the picture of grace in that moment. I had just caught the last flight to Milan from Toronto by a few minutes and when I went to find my seat, 33A, to my surprise, there was a young boy sitting there.

 I think you're in my spot, I said all at once in an exhale. 

He just stared at me. I knew I was quite the sight but I couldn't help but think that he hadn't understood me. He had that look of utter confusion about him so I just gestured to my seat and then to myself and he immediately jumped up without saying a word. 

I have this guilty pleasure whenever I travel and it's to first guess where people are from and then why they are going where they're going, all before we've exchanged any actual words. For whatever reason, I pegged this one as an Italian going home. There's just ways I can tell now, I can't explain how. It's not even that this boy looked classically Italian- he had sandy blond hair, a slight build, wide eyes, and was dressed more like an American with a sweatshirt, shorts, and black Nikes on his feet- he could have been anything but Italian if my deductions were made on looks alone. Yet over the years, I've acquired something else, a sixth sense you might say, in identifying Italians. I think it has something to do with the way they look at you, without any sense of shame or cognisance of crossing any social behaviour barriers. Unwavering is the adjective. 

I decided to test out my theory, so I accidentally kicked his backpack, said sorry in English, and waited for his response.

Nothing, he responded. I knew immediately that I was right. He was Italian. In Italian, "niente" would be a typical automatic reply to a similar contextual situation and the translation is "nothing" whereas a native English speaker would use expressions such as "no prob" or "no worries". I smiled to myself, triumphant until realizing I was in that precarious situation of which language to use. I always think about how I hate to be spoken to in English when someone is aware that I can speak and understand Italian and so I always try to keep this in mind when speaking to Italians so in this case, I stuck with English. 

Are you going home? I asked. 

Yes, the boy replied with a timid smile. 

Do you live in Milan? I prodded further. 

What? Can you repeat? he said, looking flustered. I took this chance to say something in Italian. 

Sei di Milano? Are you from Milan? 

Oh, parli italiano? Perché? he wondered out loud, his eyes opening wide with surprise. 

Abito a Bergamo, I explained. I live in Bergamo. 

And so began the eight hour plane trip over the Atlantic, an ocean that I've crossed innumerable times in the past ten years, but the first that I didn't sleep through. After I gave away my Italian, the boy who seemed so shy suddenly became the chattiest seatmate that I had ever encountered. He had just turned eighteen and gone abroad to Toronto to practice his English before returning home to enjoy his last real summer of freedom before the last year of liceo, high school. Something about him, his youth and innocence, reminded me of those high school years and of so many firsts. First love and everything that goes along with it. The kind of things you never forget. At a certain point, he told me about how he never understands when people talk to him in English and was visibily nervous as the flight attendant made her way to our row to give us the very difficult choice of chicken or pasta for dinner. 

For me, pasta, he muttered when his turn came. Immediately after he turned to me and said, l'ho detto giusto?  Did I say it right? 

I smiled and said sì, perfetto. 

He smiled back with his eyes. 

Later on, he taught me the noun edilizia, construction. He asked more about Canada, I asked more about Italy. We wrote our favorite Italian rap songs in each other's phones, me telling him about the lyrics in Mecna's "Non Ci Sei Più" where he references Lake Ontario: 

Al tramonto con due Bud ad agosto sull’Ontario
dicesti "sai, voglio andare via da Milano, vuoi venire con me?" 

At sunset, with two Buds in August on Lake Ontario
you said "you know, I want to leave Milan, do you wanna come with me?" 

And the romantic in me couldn't help but think how romantic this whole thing was. Two strangers raised by different cultures and languages, seated next to each other 35 000 feet in the air over an ocean, sharing a connection. Not romantic in its definition that would make my husband jealous, but romantic in its other definition: ​of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality. These kinds of moments, they are my reality and it is one that I have always wanted to have since my very first trip to Europe- the ability to sit next to a stranger, speak a foreign language, and laugh. I never in a million years would have thought that this idealized view of life, could, and would, become my own. 

Ce l'abbiamo fatta, he exclaimed as the plane soared over the Swiss Alps. 

We did it, I repeated. 

And we laughed, his hazel eyes shining.



Have you ever made a connection with a stranger, only to never see them again? I'd love to know, send me an e-mail or leave and comment and tell me all about it. 

Note: I apologize for being MIA these past two weeks, I've just returned back from Canada and will hopefully catch up with some blog posts soon! Thanks for stopping by and reading. ​I will be posting a new Love Story Lunedì at some point this week as well so stay tuned and don't go anywhere! 

Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the individual posts in the Creative Writing category:
​
Creative Writing: All the Sunsets
 Creative Writing: Happier
​Creative Writing: Whiskey 
​Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy 
​Creative Writing: Call Me Baby 
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect 

In the eBook:
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily

There’s no manual for hearts. No cryptic, impossible-to-decipher IKEA-esque instructions that show you how to put the pieces back together leaving you with an almost-heart missing one screw causing it to sit slightly crooked in your chest cavity. I would take an imperfectly-assembled heart over the million and one pieces that feel like they’ve settled into the depths of my gut, sliding from side-to-side as I toss and turn in the pitch black of the night, seeming to come to life as my hand accidentally slips and touches the cold mattress where your heart used to be. This was all my doing, so I shouldn’t even be writing this. The spilt milk is mine. I loved being in love with him but at the same time, I couldn’t keep loving him. His goodness was never meant for a woman like me. He needed white picket fences and freshly cut grass and Sunday mornings. I needed planes and Friday nights in Hong Kong.  I was meant for little black dresses and little else. We were so happy until we weren’t, so perfect until imperfection became what I craved. I knew I had to go. The fact was, I didn’t love him more than all the sunsets in the world I hadn’t yet seen. And so he called me selfish, called me adjectives and nouns that I never knew he knew. He called me crazy for choosing sunsets over soul mates but what he didn’t know, what I never told him, is that my soul doesn’t believe in monogamy. She’s promiscuous, a hot mess, flitting from city to city for one-night stands and falling in love all over the world.
​
Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the individual posts in the Creative Writing category:
​
Creative Writing: Happier
​Creative Writing: Whiskey 
​Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy 
​Creative Writing: Call Me Baby 
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect 

In the eBook:
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily


ALTERNATIVE PINTEREST IMAGE:

I love music just as much as I love writing, so in case you're like me, I'll provide you with a song that would be a good "soundtrack" for this story: Happier by Ed Sheeran. 

Sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary day, I wonder where you are. What city you’re in. What you’re doing at this very moment. If your eyes are still that light green, like springtime. Of course they are. Then I start thinking how we almost had it all until you fucked everything up by falling out of love with us. The last time I saw you, we sat across from each other at that place we used to go to, the one right off campus with the cinnamon buns. It reminded me of innocence and of how we thought life would always be there in that café, on that street, in that city. We never imagined that I’d be here and you’d be wherever you are and that there would be a continent between us. I’m actually not sure about the continent part, but something in my bones tells me I’m probably right. I heard you found someone new. I’ve seen her shadow in photographs on Instagram, the curve of her back and the angles of her hand. I even know her smile, have studied it trying to figure out what you said to make her laugh. I loved your wit, our banter, my dirty mouth and how you'd kiss me hard to shut me up. She’s beautiful, but you know that already. The worst part is that she’s nothing like me, the first time I saw her blonde hair, I felt like a fraud. As if all that time, all those years, I had been nothing but her stand-in. Do you read her Pushkin and buy her your favourite books? I still have them, dog-eared to mark chapters that you used to love. It’s those small things, the reminders of what we loved and lost.
 
The folded pages, the first notes of a song, the smell of cinnamon, and spring. 
 
I wonder if almost every boy in the world has bought more than one copy of his favourite book- one for you and one for her, the one that came after. The could have been and the will be. The past and the future. I hate to admit it, but you look happier, you really do. 

Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the individual posts in the Creative Writing category:

​Creative Writing: Whiskey 
​Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy 
​Creative Writing: Call Me Baby 
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect 

In the eBook:
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily

​I hated showing up there with whiskey on my breath and that stupid smile on my red lips but you had that intangible pull on me, something invisible that could only be felt although people used to tell us that they could see it. I don’t know why I showed up on your doorstep that Friday night, we’d been over for months by then and I didn’t even have your number on my phone anymore. I’d purposely deleted it to avoid sending Jack Daniel-fueled text messages that said “miss you” or some version of it. But your apartment number, the street name, those things were ingrained in my memory as much as the ocean blue of your eyes and the feeling of your heart against mine and my back against the wall. You really shouldn’t have opened the door, but you knew that we needed it, the surrendering. Oscar Wilde once said that the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. So I did and so did you. I yielded to the version of us I missed, the us that laughed entire nights away clutching our stomachs in agony to make it stop so we could breathe again. The us that could never get enough of the rush. You driving fast in the Nevada desert, my hair a mess and that kind of impossible feeling of being lost and found all at once. That's the us I miss the most. 

I love music just as much as I love writing, so in case you're like me, I'll provide you with a song that would be a good "soundtrack" for this story: Whiskey's Fine by Adam Doleac.

Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the included pieces as individual posts in the Creative Writing category:
​
​Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy (not in the eBook)
​Creative Writing: Call Me Baby (not in the eBook)
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect (not in the eBook)
​
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily

I’m laying on my back looking up at the sky, letting the first spring rain run mascara and tears down the sides of my face so that they slide over and under and seem to pool in my ears. Tiny black rain drops. A quick melodramatic moment, I try to tell myself. The sensation makes me want to laugh out loud even though I’m crying, like when the sun is shining on a rainy day. It happens you know, in the tropics. It can be raining and sunny at the same time, go figure. That’s what I feel like now, like weather that can’t make up its mind.  It’s impossible to know how much I’m crying, the briny tears mixing with the rain provides solace to my sense of pride. I've concluded that’s why people cry in the shower, because the falling water makes it impossible to quantify just how many tears you’ve spilled for another human being and the invisible sound waves bouncing off the bathroom tiles drown it all out- the sorrow and the sound of sorrow. I’m starting to wonder the same about rainstorms, perhaps they have the same magical power. It's like the falling trees in the forest; if no one hears you, maybe that means you’re not crying your heart out at all. Maybe that means you’re actually happy in that universe where tears are uncountable and unperceived and unheard.

They say that a butterfly can flap its wings and cause a tornado halfway across the world which is just a romanticized way to say that the smallest, most insignificant factors can change the course of our lives, can turn calm into storm. That small, insignificant moment for me was when I held a stranger’s eyes that one second too long over miniature rainbow-colored umbrellas on a beach somewhere on the Indian Ocean. One second we were strangers and the next, the sun was rising, a literal tequila sunrise if you will- syrupy grenadine reds and oranges and streaks of pink- and I had sand in every crease of that cotton dress you loved so much. One second was enough to put me here stomach-up on the grass in Jardin des Tuileries, when I should have been admiring the Monets nearby in the kind of outfit that can only be worn in the City of Light. One second is what made me drink almost an entire bottle of Beaujolais at lunch, sitting outside before the rain at our favorite table at that unpronounceable place on Rue des Rosiers with the wobbly wicker chairs all facing the street. The best seat in town to watch life unfold, you would say to me, between drags of your hand-rolled cigarette. I hated your smoking but I loved your old soul, how you would scribble French poetry on pieces of paper that you kept in your pockets and would eventually end up running after when they slipped out, flying away with the wind, which they inevitably always did. I used to laugh as you grasped violently at the air at the little elusive paper squares that said things like corps de femme, blanches collines, and cuisses blanches. Somehow I convinced myself that smoking, poetry and old souls were inseparable. I should have known that one vice leads to many. 

I should have know that even the people we think belong to us are just strangers that we let into our lives and write into our narrative, thinking that we know the character enough to plan the next chapters. But we can never know. A character is fictional, they exist as we want them to, as we create them in our minds, and at a certain point in the book, you turn the page and they deceive you. From one punctuation point to the next, they reveal their flaws. Like when you arrive at his five-floor walkup in the Marais on a Monday afternoon, unexpected. I keep going back to the one second it took to turn the key and find him there inside my linen bed sheets and inside someone who wasn’t me.  And I stood wordless like the fool that I was as I thought about that one damned second too long, the superfluous second, all the months before, on a beach on the Indian Ocean when I held his gaze and he mouthed bonsoir. That was the butterfly and this, this is the natural disaster.  
​
I love music just as much as I love writing, so in case you're like me, I'll provide you with a song that would be a good "soundtrack" for this story: Perfect Strangers (Acoustic) by Jonas Blue ft. JP Cooper.

If writing intrigues you, read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the included pieces as individual posts:  
​
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily

​What language do they fuck each other in?  Does she whisper vieni amore in that fleeting moment the French call la petit mort? Throw her head back in ecstasy, awaken a living revenant every morning on his side of the bed? She sometimes wonders these things, these irrational, stupid, immensely unimportant things. Turning them over in her head like a smooth stone held in a palm, contemplative, as if somehow the answer will change something. As if knowing will fill that empty, dark space that exists somewhere under her ribcage, wedged up against her heart.  It won’t and she knows it. People talk about getting over someone as if it were a physics assignment to be completed, a household item to check off a grocery list.

​Cherries. Check. Toilet paper. Check. Forget him. Check. Erase the last year. Check.  What they don’t realize is you’re trying to move on without looking back and seeing the sun glint off her long black hair, her manicured hand fitting in his better than yours ever did or ever will, ever would or could ever hope to. In your rearview mirror is a perfect picture, the objects closer and farther than they might appear, the only thing that’s distorted is that you’re not in it. She loathes that girl and her perfect everything, the way the Roman alphabet rolls off her tongue with such fucking ease, the reverberating double consonants and all those other beautiful sounds that don’t exist in the English language. The sounds that are themselves pure seduction, they can’t help themselves, they pull you in. Beckoning. You are almost compelled to put your mouth on a mouth like hers. Need to know what makes those words sound so good, what it feels like. What a tongue like that could do when it’s wrapped around something other than the letter R. And so she can't blame him for leaving. He was right to want to know the answers to these questions, he was right to keep asking the questions. The perché, the why, is irrelevant. The wanting and the needing to know all those foreign tongues, this is what proponderates over the reason, over reason. 

For a bite-size snack of make-believe romance, read these short stories: 
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily

You were like the captain of the football team, such a stereotypical choice that I wanted to avoid making. I had to avoid making. It’s almost shameful to utter the words “I fell in love with Italy” however, I suppose I should have considered that I used to be a cheerleader and therefore you were my inescapable fate from the start. I’ll come right out and say that it was lust at first sight and not love. It was not love for a long time because of your beauty. Captivating, impossible to ignore or deny. That summer, I was in awe of you. You made me marvel before I knew the word. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Wide-eyed, I took to your cobblestone streets, negotiating the path of Gods and lesser gods in high-heels and dodging glances from your entourage, dark-eyed and tempting. But it wasn’t them I was looking at, nor the men nor the women. Seductive as they are, I couldn’t take my eyes off you and you alone.

You have that kind of hold on people, and dare I say it, on virgins especially. First-timers. Yet the more I came to you, entranced and enthralled, the more I realized that amongst your beauty there were ruins. I began to see your faults because we all have them. Not even you are perfect, actually, you are the farthest thing from perfection. You hide behind this façade of slow dinners out in the piazza at twilight, the laughter of friends over clinking glasses filled to the brim with Aperol, prosecco, soda water and ice, the cypress-lined drives in the Tuscan countryside, a wake of white dust following a red 1960 Alfa Romeo Giulietta, a silent prayer after wine-fueled nights of passion in a language created for courtship and opera.

Your façade is literally in the façade of buildings that not only house history but are history themselves. You seduce easily, using all these things as part of your armory, but you let only a select few in. I get it. I’ve done it too. It’s a self-preservation thing. So many have thought they loved you until they saw the you without makeup in the morning, with fluorescent lighting after a sleepless night when nothing is going right and everything in the world is wrong. Full of secrets and corruption, of bureaucratic failures and few everyday successes. You like to dwell on the past, your past conquests, your past glories. You live in the past, but this isn’t high school anymore and it’s like everyone grew up around you. You’re vain as well. Sometimes too arrogant to admit your faults but depending on the day, you’re self-deprecating at the same time, quick to react and slow to change.

​The others, they want only the beauty without the beast. But Italy, my dearest, you are both. A paradox of sorts and a riddle that can never be solved. And only a handful of us are content with an unsolved riddle, with getting lost in it and with losing ourselves in it. Some people might say that a love like ours is destructive. I say it’s the only kind to live for. Where I am so entwined and tangled up in you that I can’t discern where you start and I end up. To live with you is to be you and to know that on some days, there are ruins in our beauty and that on others, there is beauty in the ruins. You’ve taught me not only about love but of life. I left behind so much for you, sacrificed everything that I thought of as sacred before you came along. But in you, I finally found what is sacred: slow dinners out in the piazza, twilight, the laughter of friends, the cypress-lined drives, Tuscan countryside, a wake of white dust, a red Alfa Romeo, wine-fueled nights, a language, courtship, opera, and most of all and in it all, passion.