At the top of the Via Veneto, William and I found a park called the Villa Borghese, an oasis with gardens, fountains, museums and pathways. A good place for a walk on our final Sunday together.
We skipped the museums and stuck to holding hands and strolling in the brisk air and golden light. We came across some stables and hung over fences to nuzzle horses as they breathed steamy gusts of air into our faces. We laughed at puppies rolling down hillsides. We chatted about where we were, both geographically and relationship-wise.
I wanted the perspective gained from my winter weeks in Italy to make me more secure and less needy about the magic "thing" I was supposed to do to trigger our engagement. I didn't want the anxiety of what, where or when.
As we luxuriated in the good fortune of our romantic haze, we knew only that we would miss each other. We were post-9/11 but pre-Iraq war and pre-global economic downturn. Otherwise, unknowingness was all I possessed. For someone who could daydream for hours in a state of mystery, I was getting a sky full of cloudiness.
I arrived back in Los Angeles and two days later received a dozen red roses with this note:
Buon San Valentino al mio vero amore!
Love, William
Valentine's Day, 2003, and love, nurtured in Italy, landed on our doorstep across six thousand three hundred and fifty-three miles.
I clipped the stems, set each rose in sugar water and placed the vase next to the bed. As I reached to turn out the lamp my hand stopped in mid-click.
It's 2003. William and I have been together over four years. I beat my record. Engaged/not engaged. Married/not married. None of that matters on Valentine's night. I beat my record. I didn't use the Nikes and run away.
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