And then there was Dario, tall and hunky and dressed like it was the 70’s, vintage shirt half-unbuttoned to show a small silver medallion on a hairy chest, dancing on a half-empty dancefloor early in the night, moving like he was wholly unafraid of bumping into anyone, like they were the ones who’d better move out of his way.
I didn’t move out of his way. In fact, I deliberately got in it and started talking to him and very soon kissing him. It was the type of first encounter that seems to happen more in your twenties, not so much in your thirties, when doubts and reservations crowd in.
In my bedroom, after, he wanted to smoke weed. I had some, but my vape had broken. He made me roll a joint, even though I protested I was terrible at it. The joint was indeed terrible, but we smoked it and got something out of it.
Dario had curly, greasy black hair and a thick jaw and serious eyes. He was in London as part of some kind of project with a university. Archaeology, or history — I forget which, and even which country or period it involved. I remember other things.
He liked to lick my body in long lines, from toe to neck.
He had pretentious tastes similar to my own. We went to see Music for 18 Musicians at the Royal Festival Hall. We went to see Il Deserto Rosso at the Italian embassy, and before the screening started, he pulled me into the loos and I sucked him off. I love cinema.
He wore a brown trench coat that smelled a bit musty. I never said anything, but I remember an usher at the Royal Festival Hall crinkling his nose as we walked past.
He laughed when I brought forks and knives to the table to eat tortellini. You don’t need a knife for tortellini. Annoyed, but chastened, I put the knives back.
He said he didn’t feel at home in the UK. British people’s minds went in straight lines, he explained, in stumbling English, whereas his mind liked to go here and there and up and around before its destination — he drew little curls in the air to illustrate. I shrugged and said I’d met plenty of intellectual or creative people in London. If that was what he meant.
We went to see Get Out. I loved it. He thought it had ‘too much humour.’
He fucked me while pinning my legs back against my shoulders. He looked into my face and murmured ‘bello. Bello.’
He drank too much, that night we went out with my friends. Maybe he’d been trying to dull his anxiety about not participating in the conversation enough, at the predrinks. I should have tried to include him more. I should have kept an eye on how much vodka he was pouring in his drinks. Point is, by the time we got to the club, he was so drunk he was rambling unintelligibly and bouncing off walls and bus stop poles like a pinball, a nightmare version of the charmingly confident dancer I’d seen on that first night. The bouncer, obviously, was not going to let him in, and was skeptical of the rest of us too. I had to speak to her, convince her that the rest of us were fine, and then to him, convince him to get in the Uber I’d called and go home. In the end I managed both, and had a dance in the club with my friends as if nothing had happened. It was only later I thought that maybe I should’ve gone home with Dario; maybe that would have been the considerate thing to do. A boyfriend’s responsibility. But we weren’t boyfriends.
The next time I saw him, he’d shaved off all his hair. Full Britney. Some people look good shaven-headed. He didn’t. I don’t think I was able to hide the disapproval from my face, but he shrugged and said that sometimes he just felt the need for a complete refresh.
The date was lacklustre. Over dinner, I really felt the language barrier, thicker than ever, and maybe the lack of common interests, or humour, or way of looking at the world.
We were both getting the same train after, to Highbury and Islington and then the Overground to Hackney Central, and the journey crawled by with almost a complete lack of conversation. He had a guilty look on his face, concerned or sad we weren’t connecting better, and the look embarrassed me, made me look away, made me want to be in my room, alone.
I never saw him again after that. Well, no — I did, I think, on a couple of nights out at Superstore. But he saw right through me then, was over me; I was part of the crowd again who’d better get out of his way.
And then at some point after that, he left London. Went back to Italy, which had always been the plan.
Anyway — he came up the other day, when Aoife and I were talking about old flames who we thought we’d maybe been too quick to discard.
‘Oh, but I remember him,’ she said. ‘I mean — I never met him, but you told me about him. You weren’t that into him.’
‘I wasn’t?’
‘No! You were just, like, whatever.’
‘Oh.’ Funny how unreliable memory is. Things get blown up. Or shrunk down. ‘But… the sex. The sex was good.’
‘Yeah, but Mal.’ She gave me a look like, come on. ‘I think we’ve both learned by now not to base our relationships off sex.’
‘I’m not sure I have… I wonder what he’s doing now? I hope he’s all right.’
‘Are you looking him up?’
I gave an affirmative hum. Aoife shrugged, as if to say fine, why not?
‘Oh! He’s opened up a gallery in Rome, with a friend… Visitors can explore an eclectic treasure trove of exhibits, curiosities… Oh, looks like it closed. Someone says they went and couldn’t find it. Oh no — this person says they went, and it was great.’
‘Mal… ‘
‘What if I messaged him?’ I looked up at Aoife. ‘What if I, like, went to Rome and saw his gallery, and we totally re-connected?’
‘I think you’re getting a bit carried away there… ‘
‘Mm. Probably.’ I stared at the few pictures of the gallery which may or may not exist. Then the photos of him, on his personal page. He looked much the same — same vintage style, same air of self-importance — but I didn’t really feel the old embers of attraction. Still, silently in my mind, I wished him well, then put my phone away to focus on being here, now.
I still use a knife and fork to eat tortellini.
