Flavio

A Story by Bri

A funny short story about an awkward girl abroad and a secret crush.

Why is a day already lousy when you realize your shirt has been on backwards? At the gym, all of the two treadmills were out of order, so I had to use the absurd rowing machine. After I sufficiently humiliated myself with that, I went with the safer, girly exercise band and it slipped off my tennis shoe and snapped me on the a*s. This is how I impress my anonymous Italian gym crush. I finally gave in and left, only to get home and realize that the “got milk?” side of my t-shirt was on my back, and the picture of a cow’s a*s was on my b***s. Why do I ever wear that shirt in public anyway? At least no Roman women ever go to the palestra so I don’t have to worry about their judgment of my pathetic American fashion.

In the four years that I have been in Rome, I cannot recall seeing an Italian female at the gym I started going to when my pants stopped fitting. At first, I found it somewhat consoling to think that the growth of my Italian vocabulary was in direct proportion to the growth of my hips. That lasted until my sister’s first visit, which involved quite a few impressive synonyms for plump. I think my favorite was when she referred to me as her “tubby little sister.” And thus, I joined the tiny palestra around the corner with Massimo, the Italian receptionist who always takes a slow stroll behind my treadmill. I guess I might be a little more offended if it wasn’t the only attention I get from men lately.

Because my day wasn’t bad enough already, mom called.

“Hi, sweetie!”

“Hi, Mom. I’m kind of in the middle….”

“Oh, Rena! It’s so good to hear your voice. I hardly ever talk to you any more, how are you? How is everything? Do you still have that dreadful tour guide job? Have you had any interviews?” Gee, Mom…don’t hold back or anything.

“I’m fine. Just having a bad day and I’m kind of busy.”

“Oh, honey. Did you look up that boy I told you about? Samantha Elliot’s nephew?” There is nothing like talking to your mother to make you realize just how pathetic your life is. I managed to fend her off by telling her I had to get ready for a date with someone I met at the gym. I pulled out a sheet of paper and my “Wonders of the Colosseum” pen and made a list:

1. Find real job.

2. Find real date.

3. Eat less lonely pasta.

Ideally, numbers one and two would lead to number three, but realistically, it would probably be best to start with the third. The phone rang again and I tried to figure what the chance would be that it was someone calling to offer me a job or a date. No such luck, it was just Flavio. All he had to offer me was a free cup of coffee, and that is only because he works at a café and he gets bored.

“Rena, come here in venti minuti, I am bored.” I knew it. And he knows me too well to consider the possibility that I am busy on a Saturday evening. One day, about two years ago, I had gotten dreadfully lost downtown and it was starting to pour. Flavio must have had a soft spot in his heart for the girl waiting at a bus stop in the rain because he pulled over his Vespa and offered me his spare helmet and a ride home. I realize that I am subjecting myself to a swarm of stereotypes by admitting this, but in the interest of full disclosure, I was, and still am, smitten with the valiant Italian who swept me off the street. Of course, at the time he had Laura, the model regazza italiana. But Flavio would never be interested in me anyhow, and now I accept it as long as he still wants me to keep him company at the café.

When I walked into the café thirty minutes after his phone call, Flavio shot me a huge smile from behind the bar and put his arms up on the counter.

“I have a surprise for you, Rena.” His grin never ceases to give me butterflies.

“Flavio, what could you possibly come up with that could still surprise me? ”

“Sit down.” He came around the bar and took off his apron. “I think this will make you happy…well I hope so. I mean, non lo so " okay, maybe it is not a good idea.”

“Flavio, just tell me.” It was very out of character for him to be so nervous.

“Please do not be upset. I have set you up on a date.”

“Oh my God. What? You, too?”

His face got a little bit red and I felt guilty for my reaction. He ran his hand through his thick hair. “It’s just that I don’t know if I can handle an uncomfortable blind date right now, Flavio.” He reached out and pulled my chin up gently to look him in the eye.

“Rena, per favore. Don’t you trust me? I want you to be happy.” I stood no chance. When Flavio says, “Rena, per favore,” it’s always over. I sighed.

“Unbelievable. Who is it?”

“He is a friend of my friend and very charming. And he speaks English. It will be fantastico, I am sure.” I had to smile. Flavio is a great friend but he will seldom humor my mediocre Italian, so it figures he would never suggest I try to speak it on a date. “Rena…” He said my name in a drawn out, singsong voice.

“Fine. But if this goes horribly you are fully responsible.”

“Oh, Rena,” he laughed.

“And then you have to take me on a date,” I thought to myself. I could think of worse things in the world than going on a blind date, and at least it wasn’t one set up by my mother. I resolved to make the best of it and maybe even put forth a little effort.

That night my friend Marisa invited me over for dinner. She says she can only stand to see me eat bread and salad so many times in a row, so every couple of weeks she makes a delicious cena italiana and we catch up.

“Come va l’amore? Rena, how is your love life?” Her tone was consoling as if I had suffered a tragic accident.

I must have “pathetic” stamped across my forehead, I thought.

“Well, actually, I have a date.” I decided to just put it out there because she would find out anyway.

“Eek! Tell me! Oh my gosh, not the guy from the gym? Is it the guy from the gym?”

This is why I try to avoid this topic.

“Yes! The guy from the gym " no idea what his name is because we have not exchanged a single word " just strolled up to me, took one look at the cow’s a*s on my chest, and carried me off to his flat. How could he help himself?”

“Rena, che cosa? What are you talking about?”

“Actually, Flavio set me up on a blind date. I guess it’s a friend of his friend?”

“Wow, how interesting. What’s his name?”

“Hmmm, I don’t think he mentioned it.” I wondered how I had forgotten to ask what his name was. I was off to a great start.

“Well who is his friend? Why does he think you will get along?”

“Marisa, I really don’t know anything about it. He just said, ‘He speaks English,’ and ‘It will be fantastico.’ I’m sure he will give me more details before the date next Thursday.”

“Hm.”

I could tell she was thinking about something. Marisa could always find some aspect of a situation that would never occur to me. “Rena, I wonder…” My heart sank, if Marisa "the most romantic person I know" thought this was a bad idea, it was going to be a disaster. “Do you think it’s possible that this is Flavio’s way of asking you out on a date?”

“What?”

“Well, Flavio has never taken an interest in your dating before. And why wouldn’t he tell you anything else about the guy? I don’t know, Rena. Maybe, when you show up on Thursday night, it will be Flavio waiting to surprise you!” We spent then next few hours discussing whether or not he could really pull that off and how I should act surprised when I saw him. After so much time as friends, was there actually a possibility that we could be something more?

That week, not even Massimo’s creepy staring could take away from the childish excitement I felt for the big date. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Flavio would be waiting for me with his huge grin and say, “Surprise, Rena.” On Tuesday afternoon, I had a message from Flavio with the name of the restaurant and the time for the date.

I spent Thursday in my bedroom picking out a perfect outfit with Marisa. I was supposed to meet the “mystery” guy at a trattoria right off Via del Corso at eight. According to Flavio, he would be wearing a maroon tie and sitting by the window. At 7:30 I strongly considered locking myself in my bedroom instead. How did I convince myself that the date would be a good idea? How did I convince myself that some miraculous force had inspired Flavio to finally realize that he was interested in me? The thought of showing up and seeing Massimo waiting for me at the restaurant popped into my head and I thought I was going to faint.

But as good friends always do, Marisa completely ignored all of my feelings and concerns and promptly pushed me, quite literally, out my door and we started walking. I left her at her apartment with the promise that I would go to the date and she assured me it would be fine.

I had passed the trattoria countless times and always wished I could go on a date there. At 7:54 I got to the entrance and tried not to seem too anxious as I looked over all the window tables. All empty except for one with an older couple eating dessert, so I asked to be seated at one of them and made my best attempt at self composure.

“I’m expecting someone.” The waiter nodded and said he would be back shortly. I looked up and down the menu without really reading it for five minutes. Anticipation is horrible torture when you are waiting for someone.

“Rena?” I looked up at the man who had just spoken to me. “I’m Angelo, it’s so nice to meet you.”

“Angelo,” I thought, “oh.”