was optimistic that his memoir would be a success, more than that, a hit, so he was cocky, more able to reveal insecurities, feeling, I think, that they no longer applied. We had taken to walking around naked—our naked phase, we were so hot then—it led not only to great sex but to confessions. I worried that he might leave after he told me. A morning-after regret. He would feel too exposed, vulnerable. The subject never came up again, but it was a marker—we did cross into something deeper and more dependent that night.
By the way, at the time I didn’t even think it true. The fear that he might be a goat came from something inside, I believed, and had nothing to do with his hair or lack of it and everything to do with the father who had walked out.
I liked to imagine Michael in the ring, sparring, contemplating his next punch, an exciting fantasy about a man of words. His physicality made him more compelling than the other male journalists and writers we hung out with whose only weapons were wit and sarcasm.
“In your screwed-up heart, you really do blame me for this trip,” I told him. “And I apologize.”
“My heart is screwed up,” he said.
“We agree on something.”
Since we weren’t traveling by ourselves, I had to eat crow. It wouldn’t be fair to our friends if Michael and I spent the day angry. I’m not a great defuser. Normally I take the bait as easily as the next, but I always tried to give Michael the benefit of the doubt.
He is different
, I thought. Highly strung because he’s creative, wary and distrusting because of that disappearing dad. As writers, both Michael and I—although I’m not on his level—liked being alone with our thoughts six hours a day. Living in our heads, we called it. My problem: I wasn’t living in my head anymore. Nothing much was going on there. That was why I loved traveling. I didn’t expect to get anywhere except the next restaurant. I didn’t feel a failure at the end of the day for not writing, the way I did these days at home. If I was present, that was enough.
I wanted to enjoy being married.
“You should draw the Pantheon,” Taylor was telling Snow when we found them drinking
frullati di frutta
at a café opposite. She had snuggled their chairs so they could share the guidebook. “It says here that the Pantheon, built in 125 B.C., is like achildren’s drawing of a house. Elementary. A triangle on top of a square. You should draw that, Snow.”
She often suggested activities to her daughter as if her budding teenager were a toddler.
“I love your shoes,” said Taylor.
“Oh, thank you. I love them too. They’re Nikes. But not heavy-duty like most Nikes. Isn’t the checkered fabric inside cute?” I folded back the high top. “What do you think, Snow?”
“I love your shoes,” she said. Taylor’s words. She captured her mother’s inflection perfectly. It might have been an impression. Was it an impression? Was that a comic move? Was it ridicule? I studied Snow’s poker face. She shifted her attention to the Pantheon. “Did someone shoot it?” she asked.
“It looks that way,” said Michael. “Like it’s been machine-gunned. I think it’s simply pockmarked with age. Where’s Finn?”
“Lingering at the Campo de’ Fiori,” said Taylor.
I got a pang. I was missing something wonderful, prowling through a Roman market with Finn while he flirted with the marinated peppers.
I have to confess, sightseeing makes me feel inadequate. I expect to have an emotional experience—swoon, feel my heart swell, be awed in the face of, in this case, such a monumental architectural achievement. But it never happens.
“No one will criticize you for abandoning the Pantheon.” Michael tipped down his sunglasses to let me see his eyes and that he meant what he said. He didn’t mind being alone with Taylor and Snow. “Snow, come on,” he said. “Let’s check this masterpiece out.”
Snow looked to her mother, who must have assented,
By the way, at the time I didn’t even think it true. The fear that he might be a goat came from something inside, I believed, and had nothing to do with his hair or lack of it and everything to do with the father who had walked out.
I liked to imagine Michael in the ring, sparring, contemplating his next punch, an exciting fantasy about a man of words. His physicality made him more compelling than the other male journalists and writers we hung out with whose only weapons were wit and sarcasm.
“In your screwed-up heart, you really do blame me for this trip,” I told him. “And I apologize.”
“My heart is screwed up,” he said.
“We agree on something.”
Since we weren’t traveling by ourselves, I had to eat crow. It wouldn’t be fair to our friends if Michael and I spent the day angry. I’m not a great defuser. Normally I take the bait as easily as the next, but I always tried to give Michael the benefit of the doubt.
He is different
, I thought. Highly strung because he’s creative, wary and distrusting because of that disappearing dad. As writers, both Michael and I—although I’m not on his level—liked being alone with our thoughts six hours a day. Living in our heads, we called it. My problem: I wasn’t living in my head anymore. Nothing much was going on there. That was why I loved traveling. I didn’t expect to get anywhere except the next restaurant. I didn’t feel a failure at the end of the day for not writing, the way I did these days at home. If I was present, that was enough.
I wanted to enjoy being married.
“You should draw the Pantheon,” Taylor was telling Snow when we found them drinking
frullati di frutta
at a café opposite. She had snuggled their chairs so they could share the guidebook. “It says here that the Pantheon, built in 125 B.C., is like achildren’s drawing of a house. Elementary. A triangle on top of a square. You should draw that, Snow.”
She often suggested activities to her daughter as if her budding teenager were a toddler.
“I love your shoes,” said Taylor.
“Oh, thank you. I love them too. They’re Nikes. But not heavy-duty like most Nikes. Isn’t the checkered fabric inside cute?” I folded back the high top. “What do you think, Snow?”
“I love your shoes,” she said. Taylor’s words. She captured her mother’s inflection perfectly. It might have been an impression. Was it an impression? Was that a comic move? Was it ridicule? I studied Snow’s poker face. She shifted her attention to the Pantheon. “Did someone shoot it?” she asked.
“It looks that way,” said Michael. “Like it’s been machine-gunned. I think it’s simply pockmarked with age. Where’s Finn?”
“Lingering at the Campo de’ Fiori,” said Taylor.
I got a pang. I was missing something wonderful, prowling through a Roman market with Finn while he flirted with the marinated peppers.
I have to confess, sightseeing makes me feel inadequate. I expect to have an emotional experience—swoon, feel my heart swell, be awed in the face of, in this case, such a monumental architectural achievement. But it never happens.
“No one will criticize you for abandoning the Pantheon.” Michael tipped down his sunglasses to let me see his eyes and that he meant what he said. He didn’t mind being alone with Taylor and Snow. “Snow, come on,” he said. “Let’s check this masterpiece out.”
Snow looked to her mother, who must have assented,
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