[Sequel to this.]

The later the time, the dumber I feel. Rush hour ended hours ago, and he did not return to his condo. Then came the reverie period, when people take in dinner or a film, and yet he did not return. My feet hurt from standing and my ass hurts from sitting…but not from the sex we had last night. He was careful with me. The memories of it cause my cheeks to flush. “Fuck” or “penetrate” seems a bit inaccurate… devour, he devoured me. He pushed off my clothes like layers of an onion, cupped my ass in one hand and tangled his fingers in my hair with the other. He moved his lips down my chest, to my nipples, to my….

I shake the fog out of head. If someone sees me standing here with an erection and a dazed look, they’ll call the cops. Looking back on the experience now, it was uncharacteristic of myself to be so brazen and let myself be taken home by a stranger like a common whore. I only had one hard cider! He just caught me off guard that’s all, an immaculately dressed businessman in a low-class bar populated with other backpackers and students. I might have a thing for a man in a suit.

This morning we overslept. Between showers, cooking breakfast, and the minute we had to eat bacon, eggs, and stale pastries there was no time to talk. I wished we had that morning to ourselves to laze in bed and drink espresso. It was a one night stand though, pure and simple. I didn’t even get his last name.

I hope no one asks me why I’ve been waiting here, because it’s all based on something utterly unsubstantial – a look. Cosimo had ordered me a taxi and put me in it, but his grip on my hand was crushing and his perplexed facial expression told me he was struggling with decisions. When the taxi pulled away, I turned around in my seat and watched him fade out the rear window panel. Cosimo’s face had firmed into one of lament.

I have nothing else to do in this world except wait here. Why hasn’t he come back? Maybe this is an apartment he keeps for having affairs, although I did not see a ring. There is no way on earth he’s working, it’s past midnight. I yawn. My stomach grumbles. This is foolish. At this rate, the hostels will likely be full and I’ll have to spend a pretty penny on a hotel. I can’t sleep out here, the dropping temperatures aren’t ideal for my violin. I adjust my scarf and chew on a clove cigarette. In the two months I’ve spent in Europe, I’ve remained single, chaste, and dedicated to finding my love of music again after my disastrous affair with stress, drugs, and the Sydney Orchestra. I’ve completely deviated my mission and wasted a whole day in Florence.

After a few moments of contemplating leaving, I sense that someone is watching me and I snap my head to the front. There he is. Standing there, across the street. His expression is completely blank. A moment of panic sets in when I realize I hadn’t thought about what would happen when he did come home. The distinction between romantic pursual and stalking is a thin, pale line. I bite my lip and try to appear sheepish, harmless. Foolish.

I watch Cosimo float across the cobbled street like he’s walking across water. He doesn’t say anything at first. I feel the pressure to give an explanation. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know I was thinking-”

“You were here the entire time.” His Italian flavored English makes my nerves dance.
“…What?” I put the cigarette back into my pocket.
Cosimo’s eyes dampen. “Goddamn is God playing some sort of joke on me? I spent hours looking all over the city for you… the hostels, the bars, the train stations, and you were here the entire fucking time. Waiting.”
I work my jaw but nothing comes out.
“How long have you been standing here?”
A glance at my watch. “Six hours or so.”
He cries out in frustration and throws his hands up in surrender. “Six hours‽ I could have just left work and come here! Why are you here anyway?”
I’m still not sure how to react. “Well…I just… I saw you in the taxi, when it pulled away. It looked like you wanted me to stay.”
Cosimo strokes my hair with a leather gloved hand, twisting his fingers into my locks. He sets down his briefcase and kisses me properly, one hand on my ass. There is no one to see us at this hour. It’s soft and real and wonderful and arouses me a great deal. When we part, he’s smiling.
“Come upstairs. You’ll catch a cold out here.”
“Cosimo…?”
“Yes?”
I bite my lip. “Are you going to make me leave in the morning?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”

I never did. That was in 1993. I briefly returned to Australia to situate my visa and send my belongings to Italy. Shortly after I returned, I found work as a violin teacher in an international school. When my Italian improved, I joined a small local string orchestra too. Cosimo and I eventually moved into a small house together outside of Florence and fostered two children we plan to keep. They sometimes ask how I met their father. There’s no way to explain how you know that a man you’ve met once is the love of your life. It’s just a feeling…a feeling, and a look.