A Winter in Rome

by Francis Gideon

  "Remember when you broke your phone and worried that everyone was gone?"

  "Yeah," I said, laughing at myself.

  "I sometimes get that way. I wonder if because he's gone, he's really gone."

  "It's only been a month."

  "And there are three more to go. Things change, or it seems so."

  I nodded, sipping my drink. Everyone kept telling me, especially after I graduated my undergrad, that things changed. All the time, every day. Things change, Craig! You must go with the times. Don't get left behind! But I liked where I was. I wondered if change was less like a lightning bolt and more like the moss that grew over the side of buildings. Not noticeable one day, then suddenly, it was all you could see.

  "You feel like me sometimes, huh?" I said instead of attempting to wax poetic. "Then you should come with me, and get into my clothing."

  She rolled her eyes, touching my nose with foam from the latte she drank, but then added afterwards, "Maybe I will—but only if you stay at my place."

  "Deal."

  *~*~*

  So while Alan was in Rome, I got used to sleeping in Sybil's bed. She read his emails over my shoulders, got to know him better through his stray text messages and the small coffee-and-going-away party we had before he left. She saw him on the occasional shaky Skype dates, and heard his words come out of my mouth so often, I should have known that she would start to see him like I did. And Alan, too, by the end of his stay, would sometimes address his emails to both of us.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I was still fifteen minutes from a break at the café, but I bowed out, allowing one of the new kids to cover me. Out the back door, the last bit of the winter still clung to the Toronto streets in the form of an icy wind. I hovered close to the door like a smoker, my hoodie stretching down over my hands, getting a fix of Alan.

  It's late here, but I can't sleep. I sent an email to you. To both of you.

  What did it say?

  That I can't wait to come home and have dinner. The stay has worn out. I love you too much.

  Never too much. Soon, okay? I checked my watch. Only twenty-one hours.

  But who's counting?

  I could still hear his laugh in my ear—and soon, I told myself, everything would be fine. There was something so wonderful about coming out of winter, especially in Canada. You got to see the sidewalks again and your jeans didn't get ruined by salt or ice. That's what that Italian phrase, the one that Sybil told me about the rabbit, was hinting at, I figured. Don't be afraid, little rabbit, it's no longer winter. Time to come home.

  *~*~*

  I knocked on Sybil's door past ten that night. She opened it with her hair pulled back, sweat pants on, and wearing one of my old band t-shirts. She looked gorgeous, like she always did.

  "You smell like coffee," she told me as she stood aside to invite me in. Her apartment was covered in paintings of flowers people had given her over the years. Her last name was Flowers, and most people still thought this gift idea was funny because of it. She told me once that she drew flowers in the margin of her textbooks, not because she liked them like people thought, but so people would know who to return her books to. Drawing her name was always a lot more fun than writing it down.

  On her coffee table were books for her graduate classes. She was taking only two at a time, but she also had teaching obligations on top of it. She was TAing Women's Studies 101, a course she could do in her sleep, but she had insisted on revisiting all her old texts for. I spotted Audre Lorde's Sister Outsider and bell hooks pages on the ground and was careful not to step on anything as I made my way through. There were stacks of journal responses from her students next to the books, with letter grades on the top along with some more flower marginalia. Sybil had already gotten through half of the stack—more than I had anticipated. She was always such a good worker; I still didn't even know how she had time for it all.

  And here I was, I reminded myself, making coffee all night. That is your contribution to the world. And apparently you still smell like it.

  "I'm sorry," I told her, sniffing my hoodie and realizing just how right she was. "I could use your shower."

  "You just want to take off your clothes."

  "Is that so bad?" I smirked at her. She sat back down on her couch, in front of a book that had been highlighted. She grabbed her large mug and took a sip, only to make a face.

  "Forgot about it again?" I asked. "Now your tea's cold?"

  She shrugged. "Distracted…"

  I took her mug from her and brought it into the kitchen. She followed me and stood by the doorway as I began to make her a new cup.

  "Sorry to drag work home," she said. I wasn't sure who exactly she was apologizing too, but I nodded and let it go.

  "It's okay. We're both passionate people. You for young women and girls, and me for warm beverages."

  She huffed playfully. "Not just women and girls take these classes. Or need crisis centres. There are more young men, including trans men, coming in every night. You know trans people have one of the highest instances of abuse in relationships? They never see good ones in their life—and media doesn't do a good job."

  The kettle boiled as she talked, so I added water a new tea bag to her mug. "Not surprising."

  "Speaking of passion though," she said, switching gears and glancing at her wall clock. "Just how many hours, dear?"

  "You sound like a tired mother."

  "That's harsh."

  "Eighteen," I said, handing her a new mug of tea. "Give or take."

  "Well, there you go."

  She sipped for a while as I leaned back against the counter. "You okay?" I asked. "You seem quiet."

  "Not exactly uplifting reading tonight. Even the journal entries are bumming me out."

  "I get it. You should take a break. Did you see the email Alan sent?"

  She sighed. In the flicker of a moment, I saw her flinch. There was something there, underneath her skin. I thought it had been her reading and work at first. But then I remembered how well I really knew Sybil. Her work never depressed her; it made her feel as if she could actually change the world when she could understand its problems, in all its ugliness, more fully. Something was bugging her, and though I saw her flinch around his name, I didn't want to admit that it was Alan.

  "Yes," she said. "I think I read it a while ago. I don't really remember, because it was on my phone and I was I the middle of stuff."

  "It's okay."

  "I know."

  I nodded, feeling her curt voice like a knife. I took a step forward, wrapping my arms around her waist. She smiled at me weakly, but didn't put down her tea.

  "Non abbiate paura, coniglietto."

  She laughed a little weakly. "I guess winter is almost over."

  I grabbed the tea from her hand, now half gone. She let me take it and place it on the counter before I closed the space between our bodies. We kissed, her mouth eager, yet tired. I finally just ran my hands through her hair and held her until she figured out what she wanted.

  "Let's just go to bed, okay? I know it's not even midnight, but…"

  "Okay," I said, planting a kiss on her forehead. "I'm good if you are."

  I flicked off her hall lights as we ambled down to her bedroom. She stripped off clothing as she walked, leaving on her boxers. She slid under her blankets, not bothering to cover her breasts. I took off my shirt and belt in the doorway.

  "Can I put on music?"

  She nodded, her eyes closed. I put on Horses again, because I had had "Gloria" in my head all day and no amount of Muzak would get it out. When I crawled next to her, only wearing boxers, she didn't open her eyes. She lay next to me, her breathing shallow, but she didn't sleep. Sometimes, Sybil's thoughts were so strong that I could hear the roar. I didn't want to ask her, because I knew that sometimes it was too hard to pry everything out. So instead I asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

  "Shut up, Craig," she said in a harsh—but always playful—tone.
r />   I laughed. I ran my hands through her blonde hair, combing over her ear. "Are you saying that because we are already grown up, or because you don't know the answer?"

  She cracked one of her eyes open and then pursed her lips. "I'm saying that because that's too far in the future."

  "And what's right now?"

  "The end of winter." She smiled weakly. "And he's going to come back."

  "And?"

  "And things are always different then, you'll see."

  I bit my lip. I had been so afraid of this—I thought we had gotten through his absence without any changes. I thought, for a while, that we were fine. I knew I could have both of them, but I wanted so much more, like Sybil seemed to want more.

  "Things won't change," I told Sybil. "At least, not like you're afraid of."

  "You don't know what I'm afraid of."

  "True, but I could if you told me."

  After a pause, she said, "Not right now."

  "Okay." I continued to brush her hair over her ears, kissing quietly. "But you know I'll always come back to you, right? That's the deal. I'm in love with both of you, and I will find time. We always think there's not enough time in the day, but that's just because capitalism makes us break everything down into manufactured pieces. But that's not how I see things when I'm with you or him. That's not…"

  She turned over, placing her body against me. She pressed a finger against my lips. "Shhh. I know, Craig. I know."

  "You do?" I said, murmuring against her finger. "You know he won't take me from you?"

  "I do. That's not what I'm thinking about."

  She stared at me, her blue eyes willing me to understand without words. Then, slowly, like the way a collage is made, I got it. She wasn't afraid of me leaving her; our relationship was good, solid. But she wanted something else, something more. When Alan had first talked to her on the phone, he had said he could change her mind on one art piece, and she resisted. She always resisted. Now, years later, maybe Sybil had changed. And now—

  "It's okay," she said, cutting my thoughts off. She moved her fingers to my shoulder, and talked in quick, clipped words. "It doesn't matter right now. I'm here, and you're here. Let's not think about the future, okay?"

  I didn't want to let this go so easily, but she was right. The future was so far away, and all I wanted to do was get through the night. After a quiet moment, I took her hand and nodded. "Is tomorrow too far in the future?"

  "No," she said. "It's midnight now. What did you want?"

  "Come for dinner. Tomorrow night. Just you and me, okay?"

  "But what about Alan?"

  "Rebecca's got him. I will see him soon. What's another couple hours when it's already been four months? I want to talk to you."

  She bit her lip. About this? she seemed to ask with her eyes, and I nodded before she could open her mouth.

  "Okay. Sure," she finally said. "Dinner sounds good. I think I'd like that a lot."

  I gave her another hug, pressing her close to me, and whispered, "coniglietto" before she fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Mio amore, Alan texted me during my break. Is what Becca tells me true?

  Yes, I wrote, slipping my phone out from my pocket and typing between orders of fancy lattes. I'm deeply, deeply in love with you.

  Silly boy, he said. Then, as if anticipating my text to correct him, he did it for himself. I mean 'silly man.' But is she the one picking me up from the airport?

  Yes. I'm staying with Sybil tonight. Is that okay?

  Yes, yes! He texted back right away. I could see his shaky hands, most likely clutching coffee to help steady his nerves without a cigarette. I knew he had a layover in some God-awful Midwestern town in the states halfway through his flight. He was probably texting me from there now, a book he barely read in his lap, and notes with drawings in the margins in his carry-on bag. At least these messages wouldn't cost me a fortune, but I still wanted him so much closer.

  I don't mind at all, my love. But we'll probably need to get our calendars together, so we can figure out who is supposed to be with whom with a little bit more leeway time in the future.

  My eyes went wide, nodding to myself. There was already a large calendar that Sybil and I kept between our work shifts, her volunteer shifts, and her late-night classes that I often picked her up from. Time had almost been so easy the past four months while Alan had been gone. In spite of missing him terribly, my world had opened up. I could just go to the movies—by myself if I wanted—without checking and crosschecking a million things on my phone. I could sleep late, and take another shift at the café, and not have to verify with three or four people that it was okay, that I wasn't missing a birthday or a cut-off date for an assignment. Alan had slipped in between fifteen minute breaks at work, over his coffee in the Rome morning and my late-night insomnia in Sybil's bed, and like right now, in between two cranky customers' lattes.

  Yes, yes. We will plan it all out. I thought of Sybil, and added a sly remark: You have no idea how much love we have to cram onto the calendar now.

  Oh? He sent back. I got caught by a couple customers and couldn't write him back right away. I felt my phone buzz as I frosted drinks, and then turned away to look again. Three messages from Alan:

  Well, good. I love you immensely and I will see you soon. Then, Airports are dreadful and I can't wait to be in your arms. And finally, But for now, kiss Sybil for me. And we'll rendezvous later.

  I was still smiling at his small emoticons when another message came in from Sybil. I'm going to cook Egyptian tonight, she wrote. I hope that's okay.

  I laughed and wondered when I'd get groceries, but I said it was all okay. Everything. Every last thing is wonderful. I'm game.

  Just when I thought I couldn't get any more fragmented or distracted, another message came in from Alan during my last customer in a rush.

  I almost forgot—you're living with me now, aren't you? And that means I must stay with Rebecca tonight. That's good—totally fine. She's already planning an art show with whatever I've brought back. She's mad I missed her grant party, so I do need to spend some quality time with her. But we must remember to get a real calendar and hang it up. So everyone can see.

  The thought struck me for a moment. I had been using my iPhone ever since the day I got it in order to plan out and put in deadlines. It had served me well, and I liked how contained it was. I could keep my relationships with them private, attend to them when I needed. But there was a distinct pride in Alan's message. When he wanted to hang something on the wall, it needed to be art. It was something to show off. Our calendar and the hours we would keep with one another, especially now that he and I would share a living arrangement, was something to frame. Our lives were something to be remembered.

  That was all Alan had ever wanted.

  Yes, I sent back. That's the perfect plan. I can't wait to see you. But if you get bored before then, draw me something nice. I have to go. Xoxoxo.

  *~*~*

  Sybil arrived wearing her jacket done up to her throat, her scarf barely discernible from her long blonde hair around her neck. She hadn't worn a coat in ages, and I hadn't either. The night before, when I was out and texting Alan before his plane ride, I had on only my hoodie. When Sybil stepped in, I felt the chill on her—and then looked closer at her hair.

  "Is that… snow?"

  Sybil's blue eyes were narrowed. The snow melted from white crystals to damp patches against her hair. "Yeah. The weather has been utterly nuts today. Freak snow storm at the end of April. They're actually calling for at least a couple centimetres." She took off her coat in a huff, hanging it in the hall closet. She kicked her shoes down on the mat before kneeling and undoing her laces. She lifted her face to me, peeking out from her hair that fell down. "Haven't you heard all of this? What time did you get off work?"

  "Three. And uh… No. I didn't hear anything. I haven't really been outside much."

  "What else is new?"

  On her feet aga
in, Sybil walked into the apartment. She didn't spend too much time at Alan's place. We usually went to hers, or she picked me up here and we went to the café to hang out. Alan's apartment wasn't messy per se, but there were times when I couldn't get to his sink because of the dishes or I couldn't find clean underwear. But then there were other times where I went to sleep with everything a mess, and woke up to a spotless apartment. Alan cleaned only when he felt like, and only when he knew he could do an immaculate job. I had learned to love this fact about him, because it made me feel as if being a grown-up didn't always have to be an all-or-nothing event. You could slide back into teenage years, stay up late, but still pay all your bills on time with a good job.

  "I can see you've been busy," Sybil remarked. She was in the kitchen now, examining the ingredients I had bought after she texted me her recipe for kushari. The rice was still simmering on the stove and I had started to chop the onions to get ready to deep-fry them. The smell of spices, along with garlic and oil, permeated the room. I had gotten everything together so quickly after work, and then been so busy with fixing the apartment and showering, I hadn't really bothered to turn on the radio or TV to hear about the weather.

  As Sybil got down dishes from cupboards, I went to the balcony window and pulled back the blinds. Sure enough, a thin layer of snow covered everything outside. Big, fat flakes were still falling, covering the ashtray outdoors as if no one had used it in years, rather than just months.

  "It's weird," Sybil said, suddenly appearing by my side. "Feels almost like we're in an apocalypse and the last two people on earth."

  "Global warming, so maybe apocalypse isn't too far off." I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone. There were texts from Rebecca and Alan, both of them complaining about the weather. I'm Canadian again, Alan wrote, I'm already talking about the wind-chill. I smiled and sent a reply, before turning back to Sybil. "At least we're not entirely alone."

  "Never," she smirked. I leaned down to kiss her, our lips almost meeting, before we heard a sudden hiss from the kitchen.

  "Fuck," I said when the smoke alarm went off. As Sybil moved into the kitchen to take the small pan off the heat, I moved over to the fire alarm and waved one of Alan's sketch books to keep it from screeching any further.