“Pleaaaaase call me a taxi”, I beg for what has to be the fourth time in 10 minutes. He pulls me by my, well, his, over-sized shirt back into bed and I fall limply onto him. “Five more minutes” he asserts in a hoarse-ish whisper that I couldn’t even dream to imitate. His thick accent drew me initially, but beyond that, guys out here can whisper in such a sexy and totally non-contrived way that American men can’t even perfect for the movies.
Suddenly, I turn from playful and patient to anxious and angry and begin putting my heels on and slipping into my way-too-tight-and-short-for-daylight black dress.
“I seriously need to go the fuck back to my hotel” I tell him. “I’m here for work and I have some shit I have to do before the show today”. It’s barely past 7 am, and the call time for the Dolce and Gabbana show isn’t until noon, but I’m hating the fuzzy feeling of too much Prosecco, and want to go stand in the shower at my hotel and see if my body starts crying hysterically.
Understanding the “I’m not fucking around anymore” tone in my voice, even despite the language barrier that seems to only grow with each day spent together, he gets up angrily, hastily dials a foreign number and begins speaking quick, mean-sounding Italian to the taxi driver on the other end.
“Well..” I ask, re-treating a little from the bitchy tone and body language I’d just used to get my way minutes before.. “He’ll be here in five minutes” he says and walks downstairs in a way that only projects sheer misery.
Oddly, this wasn’t the first time we’d had a similar situation, wherein he gets irrationally angry with me for wanting to re-treat from our romance and calm the fuck down for a second. So I’m actually not concerned at all.
When I get downstairs he’s waiting by the door for me with an umbrella and 20 euro for the taxi. I leave his money on the table and say “You’re going to pay me for last night even when we didn’t even do it?”… My attempt at humor is completely lost on him, (again, the language barrier) and he just cocks his head to the side like one of those dog photos you see on the calendars.
I sigh and walk outside into the pouring rain. Not even half a step behind me, he appears immediately at my side with an umbrella shielding me from the weather I totally didn’t go to Europe for.
When we get to the taxi he pulls me close to him for one of those epic, rainy, make-out sesh kisses, but I turn assertively to the side and opt for one of those cheek pecks that are so popular here. Before he had a chance at a second attempt I threw myself into the cab and closed the door behind me.
“Buongiorno” I say to the cab driver, trying to act like I’m not some dumb American girl whose very obviously in last night’s clothes Ubering back to her 5-star hotel.
By the time the 25 minute cab ride has come to an end and I’m back in my own quarters, I’ve had ample time to go through the bipolar process of regretting my bitchiness and haste, then justifying it to myself, regretting it again and more so, then coming to terms completely and reaching a neutral state on it.
This cyclical and clinically insane behavior is probably, at least in part, what caused the demise of my past relationship..
Boy loves girl.. boy shows girl.. girl is disgusted.. hates cheesy affection… misses the affection.. craves the affection… regrets pulling away.. regrets the cold demeanor.. apologizes half-heartedly.. acts differently next time, (at least for a bit). ..repeats at next encounter.
It’s so familiar to me to have a guy, guys, whatever, falling fast and hard and being a little, over the top. There’s the kissing and touching me non-stop, complimenting me, and then the “little things” too like opening umbrellas, making food, bringing surprise presents or treats. Why these behaviors turn me off so much is a fucking mystery to me because what kind of cold-hearted, fucking ice-queen gets annoyed at genuine affection.
But we always want what we can’t have. And the second that affection isn’t right in front of me, bothering me like a fly in the bedroom, I miss it awfully and want it back immediately.
Anyway, that’ me so welcome to my world of romantically doomed mental illness.
Now that was quite the tangent, but let me try to rewind a little bit, so that I can rewind a lot of bit and we can go to the beginning of this love story.