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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Between Them The conversation had started long before the so litary lamp-post began to cast the familiar amber light, prompting both shadows and people to emerge from darker and less playful places. The appeal of tossing the cigarette on the ground had been lost upon arrival at the bus stop, which seemed to serve as a prototype for all the other bus stops around the Trastevere Train Station. This one, therefore, was exemplary in its collection of high caliber garbage contributed by understanding passersby, prolific passengers- in-waiting, and the decorative homeless (who at night called its plastic and metal shelter home.) What then would have been the point of adding to the mishmash of half-charred, lipstick-stained, and shoe-trodden cigarettes? No, there was no artistry in it, no point-much like the conversation, which Antonio Vitale thought would never end. The ride from Largo Argentina on the number 8 tram, heading towards Casaletto, had involved more than enough conversation for him. At that time of day, when everyone was either heading home from work or happily preparing to find another Roman adventure, the tram had been crammed with people and the resulting steam only increased the odor of the many men who, even after a decade into the new millennium, still refused to wear deodorant; a fact of which Antonio had sincerely been ashamed. He had thought it lucky to have gotten the two single seats facing each other near the rear exit. He had thought it equally lucky that, in the general din, their conversation (a mix of beautifully broken Italian and German) could not have been easily overheard or understood. Antonio had spent the time listening. At least, that is how he wanted to appear to her and others. In reality he had occupied his time by staring out the window while half- listening to the sound of her voice and nodding at her at the correct intervals

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as well as making the appropriate Mmmhmm sounds he knew she always expected. It was just before the tram began crossing the Ponte Garibaldi, spanning the Tiber, that Antonio had told her that he needed to watch to see if they had arrived at the Trastevere Train Station stop. It was an excuse, which he had understood to be obligatory and she had accepted to be untrue. It was their relationship dance, and both knew and anticipated each others steps. He was simply doing as he always did, as was she. She had started talking and so Antonio had had to stop facing her. Rote steps learned at the start of their relationship. Antonio had not wanted to see her eyes, light and sad. It had been her eyes after all that had first drawn him in and fixed him in his current place. He had understood that looking at her would have only served the purpose of giving her more strength to continue her speech. That had been the second thing that had drawn him in: her voice, deep and sophisticated. Throughout their relationship he had felt more often than not like a schoolboy when speaking with her, especially the given ten-year difference between their ages. It had not helped either that their cultural attitudes had been so vastly different. The emotions that he knew how to express openly and physically, she had barely tolerated and had constantly reprimanded him for touching her with Was machst du da?! Non toccarmi in pubblico! Each time it had left him feeling isolated and insecure, which were the only two feelings he still had had no interest in sharing with her. Instead he had grown quieter over time and had pulled away from her, which resulted in scheduled discussion times like the conversation today. Hai capito, meine Liebe? The words had snuck up on him much like the significant deep right turn of the tram as it entered the Trastevere stop. Ja, sicher, amata mia. She had taken his left hand as they had gotten off, and she had pulled him closer to her as they had made their way through the crowd of people, who had also disembarked and had been hurriedly

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crossing Viale di Trastevere and heading towards the station. She had always done this. Antonio had always smiled her when she did. Today, however, he hadnt smiled or perhaps couldnt. Things had become too different between them, cold and isolating. Antonio glanced at her, concentrating his gaze briefly on her still moving lips, and wondered if she understood how one-sided everything had become between themprobably not. She continued to talk even while they had been bombarded by the three quite plump, middle-aged, half- naked drunks asking for spare change, women who she had always looked at with sympathy but to whom she had never given a cent.

She had paused only momentarily to pay attention to some dark-haired and dark-skinned children-this is how she preferred to describe them, feeling it more polite than assuming them to be gypsies-who had been drinking from and playing with the old, rusted and grimy- looking standing water fountain (as well as the bits of trash collected around it) on the corner by the entrance of the Piazza Flavio Biondo. A spray of water had made her smile. Children had always made her smile, children and small animals. It was a dangerous intersection to cross, going from the numerous tram lines of Viale di Trastevere to Via degli Orti di Cesare with its decrepit and curving wall that hid the oncoming vehicles from the forever busy Via Portuense, a road leading to the popular local and tourist attraction of the Sunday Porta Portese flea market-Everything about this part of Trastevere had felt dangerous to her. Katrina Brasch had had more than enough of walking alone in the evening and late at night in an effort to see him. Even walking with him this evening hadnt felt particularly safe, but that may not have had anything to do with the scenery, she had conceded.

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It wasnt that she couldnt see the old charm of Trasteveres buildings, each having taken a dirtier and more worn-out version of a rainbow color. It wasnt that she had not enjoyed learning the Roman dialect via conversations in high fidelity being held through the windows by neighbors in buildings, each on the other side of the courtyard of the apartment complex. She hadnt minded the awkward and leering stares in response to her waist- length light white blonde hair, silvery grey eyes, and suntan-resistant pale skin. Simply, it had been that she needed cleanliness and order. After all, she was German and believed in, at least, in her life that Ordnung mu immer sein. And Katrina had hoped that she could bring some order to his life. The bus stops nefarious scent, composed of cooking meat, fresh and stale cigarette smoke, old and new alcohol, animal (and potentially human) fecal matter, and undoubtedly urine from every possible source, had been a contaminating component of every one of their conversations. He had always insisted, however, that they talk while waiting for the bus that would take her home even though his apartment was a short walk from the stop. It had been like this for some time now. Looking at him, she wondered when he stopped allowing, or perhaps was it wanting, her to visit him. She could feel the heaviness of the large black leather messenger bag that she always carried, digging into her left shoulder. She needed to go home and work. She wanted things to change in the conversation, which had been consistently onesided. Katrina had been attracted to the contrast between them: his darkness to her light. It was the way he had smiled at her that first day on Via Bocca di Leone, openly and warmly. She had felt safe to let down her guard. She had been warned about Italian men by both Italian women and non-Italian women. It was the fact that he had never approached her that appealed to her, that he had never tried to break her routine as she made her way through the many tourists

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in search of The Spanish Steps, or the fashionistas who had somehow veered off the cobblestoned path to the luxury- lined Via dei Condotti. She hated being jostled by the crowds, having to clutch her bag too tightly against her body, being pointed at or thinking that it was happening, giving directions in broken Italian and English, meeting other Germans, and being a part of what seemed to her an insane mass of chaotic energy. It had been her attempt at getting away from the crowds that had brought her to that somewhat quieter and narrower street where he stood silently and unmoving in the heat of the midday. She hadnt been able to explain to her friends and she hadnt brought herself to tell her family about their relationship. After all, what could she say when she didnt understand it herself? In response to the relationship, her friends had shared comments and stories about Italian men from the South, none of which she cared to hear but had to endure. More horrifying had been the discussion on older women and younger men, and how chic they thought she had become. She hadnt wanted to think about all of that today. She hadnt wanted to think about any of the past things. She had just wanted him to speak with her. Che stai pensando adesso, Liebe? She watched him as he purposefully flicked the cigarette butt he had been holding towards the road as a black BMW with tinted windows drove by. She watched him as he leaned against the bus shelter and removed another cigarette from the pack, put to his lips, and lit it. She heard him as he replied, Ja. Oggi ho deciso di smettere di fumare. Bist du glcklich adesso? She heard the ambulance sirens as it rushed by, the angry drivers yelling because they had to stop to make way, the terrified hiss of a cat that was somewhere close to the top of the stairway that led from the station, the sizzle of tobacco as it burned with each inhale, and her own silence.

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For today it was the first time that they looked at each other. For them, it could only be done in the shadow of the bus stop, where the light was always dim. Simultaneously and in silence they agreed that the conversation had come to its end. Not because she now believed him that he would finally quit smoking as she had hoped and had repeatedly asked of him, or that she somehow felt happy as he had asked of her at the end. Not because he had won her silence once again through evasion of her eyes and the expression of her face, or because the general pandemonium of the bus stop had always made him feel protected by drowning out her voice. Not because anything had changed between them. This was their dance, even these next steps: the arrival of the bus, the worried kiss goodbye, the building of distance. They watched each other through the windows as the bus driver stopped once again to allow a young couple with a stroller to embark.

Antonio had expected Katrina to make a gesture for him to call her while she travelled home on the bus. Katrina had expected Antonio to have left as soon as the bus departed. Antonio looked at the pack of cigarettes and wondered why he had told her that he would quit. He wondered why he could not tell her the truth. The thought of he r leaving him had never entered his mind before this night, but suddenly it was there along with a feeling of fear and relief. Katrina stared at her cell phone willing it to ring, but it didnt. She had taken a chance. The thought that he never really loved her, which had always been present in her mind, became pronounced as she watched the young couple being playful and mutually caring for their child,

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who was sleeping peacefully in her stroller. She wondered then why she felt something close to nothing in response.