would be like for him to hold me in his arms, to feel his lips on mine, on my skin, and to share a bed with him.
And I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room from the bed, and see the reality of my plain looks and undistinguished body.
I had been attracted to men beforeâhandsome but vapid male models that drifted through the hallways at Street Talk , gorgeous men I saw on the streets or the subway, but this was different. This was more than a physical attraction, and stupid and pointless as it was, I knew I was falling in love with Carlo Romaniello.
Once I admitted it to myself, I laughed at my own foolishness.
He was merely being kind to a church mouse.
âThatâs fine,â I said to my reflection in the mirror, with a determined tilt to my chin. âIâm glad to be of any use to him.â
But my defiant thoughts were just that, and I knew that I wanted to be more than that to him. I wanted him to care about meâlove was too much to ask for. He was used to men like Timothy, men with handsome faces and stunning bodies with sophisticated tastes and senses of humor, men who sparkled in the limelight even if they didnât crave it, and carried it off with aplomb and style. Men who wore designer clothing tailored to fit their bodies perfectly, rather than irregulars with designer labels bought at discount stores by a man who had no grasp of what went with what, who went to discount hair salons and could never duplicate the style again with gels and sprays and products.
The world Carlo Romaniello inhabited might as well have been the moon.
And no matter how much I hoped and prayed, he wasnât going to call me again. What did I have to offer someone like him?
Nothing.
The best I could hope for was he would simply forget about me, rather than remember and laugh about me with his friends over drinks at some glittering party, telling the story of the pathetic young man he spent some time with one afternoon in South Beach.
When I turned off the lights and went to bed, I was resigned to the reality of my life. Tomorrow, I would go to the beach in my cheap blue board shortsâbeing careful not to burn. I would do whatever Valerie needed me to and just hole up in my room reading books, trying hard not to be miserable and lonely, missing him, and trying not to get my hopes up every time my phone rang.
I dreamed of him that night, a dream so incredibly vivid that when I woke up in the gray hour just before dawn and realized I was still in my hotel room, I almost burst into tears from disappointment.
For the first time in my life, I knew what I was missing. One afternoon with Carlo Romaniello and my life now seemed empty, devoid of everything that made life worth living. I saw my life through his eyes and was overwhelmed by the nothingness of it. It was like the rest of the world was inside at some wonderful party, and I was outside with my face pressed up against the glass, watching them and wishing I could be inside with everyone else instead of outside and miserable.
With Valerie sick and confined to her room, the rest of the week stretched before me like some horribly empty void.
As the sun rose and my room filled with the morning light, I wrapped my arms around my legs and wondered what to do with myself.
I ordered my usual coffee and fruit breakfast from room service, and once again, my head resting on my drawn-up knees, replayed the previous afternoon in my head, trying to view the things heâd said to me and the way heâd acted dispassionately like a disinterested observer rather than a lonely young man who could so easily mistake kindness from a handsome older man as something more than what it actually had been.
No matter how bitterly disappointing it was to admit the truth to myself, I did. I wasnât ever going to hear from Carlo Romaniello ever again.
âIâm truly patheticâValerie is so right about me,â I chastised myself,
And I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room from the bed, and see the reality of my plain looks and undistinguished body.
I had been attracted to men beforeâhandsome but vapid male models that drifted through the hallways at Street Talk , gorgeous men I saw on the streets or the subway, but this was different. This was more than a physical attraction, and stupid and pointless as it was, I knew I was falling in love with Carlo Romaniello.
Once I admitted it to myself, I laughed at my own foolishness.
He was merely being kind to a church mouse.
âThatâs fine,â I said to my reflection in the mirror, with a determined tilt to my chin. âIâm glad to be of any use to him.â
But my defiant thoughts were just that, and I knew that I wanted to be more than that to him. I wanted him to care about meâlove was too much to ask for. He was used to men like Timothy, men with handsome faces and stunning bodies with sophisticated tastes and senses of humor, men who sparkled in the limelight even if they didnât crave it, and carried it off with aplomb and style. Men who wore designer clothing tailored to fit their bodies perfectly, rather than irregulars with designer labels bought at discount stores by a man who had no grasp of what went with what, who went to discount hair salons and could never duplicate the style again with gels and sprays and products.
The world Carlo Romaniello inhabited might as well have been the moon.
And no matter how much I hoped and prayed, he wasnât going to call me again. What did I have to offer someone like him?
Nothing.
The best I could hope for was he would simply forget about me, rather than remember and laugh about me with his friends over drinks at some glittering party, telling the story of the pathetic young man he spent some time with one afternoon in South Beach.
When I turned off the lights and went to bed, I was resigned to the reality of my life. Tomorrow, I would go to the beach in my cheap blue board shortsâbeing careful not to burn. I would do whatever Valerie needed me to and just hole up in my room reading books, trying hard not to be miserable and lonely, missing him, and trying not to get my hopes up every time my phone rang.
I dreamed of him that night, a dream so incredibly vivid that when I woke up in the gray hour just before dawn and realized I was still in my hotel room, I almost burst into tears from disappointment.
For the first time in my life, I knew what I was missing. One afternoon with Carlo Romaniello and my life now seemed empty, devoid of everything that made life worth living. I saw my life through his eyes and was overwhelmed by the nothingness of it. It was like the rest of the world was inside at some wonderful party, and I was outside with my face pressed up against the glass, watching them and wishing I could be inside with everyone else instead of outside and miserable.
With Valerie sick and confined to her room, the rest of the week stretched before me like some horribly empty void.
As the sun rose and my room filled with the morning light, I wrapped my arms around my legs and wondered what to do with myself.
I ordered my usual coffee and fruit breakfast from room service, and once again, my head resting on my drawn-up knees, replayed the previous afternoon in my head, trying to view the things heâd said to me and the way heâd acted dispassionately like a disinterested observer rather than a lonely young man who could so easily mistake kindness from a handsome older man as something more than what it actually had been.
No matter how bitterly disappointing it was to admit the truth to myself, I did. I wasnât ever going to hear from Carlo Romaniello ever again.
âIâm truly patheticâValerie is so right about me,â I chastised myself,
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