What I savored most was the hint of something to come. He knew Heather was leaving the next day, so he invited me to meet him and go back to his place the next night after he got off work, around midnight. He had the following day off, he said, and would be happy to act as my tour guide. I was hesitant, but he insisted that he would be a gentleman and that I could sleep in his room while he slept on the couch. “And in the morning,” he smiled, “My mother will come and make us breakfast.” After so many nights on rusty mattresses, the idea was tempting. When he walked us to the waterbus stop in the early morning hour, he gave me a warm hug and said, “Until tonight, my friend.” I felt smitten—and safe.
As I spend the day visiting one small island after another around Venice, I try not to get attached to any fantasies about Antonio, but it is impossible. I have dreams about walking around Venice for hours, or better yet, driving to Lake Como or a special spot of his, somewhere, and feeing our connection slowly deepen. I imagine long talks, lots of laughter, and sparks of attraction that make the intensity between us grow as the days go by. I imagine making love to him out of a desire that’s built over the course of the week, an intimate night before we part. And then, there’s always the possibility of return trips to Venice or my friends anticipating the arrival of my Venetian lover in the States. More than anything, I enjoy the anticipation, the sensation of my own heart beating faster at the excitement of a particular person and possibility. Every time my heart gets broken or a relationship ends, I have more fear that this feeling is a scarcity, a far away radio signal that my heart might not tune into in the future. So, accompanied by this excitement, is the relief that my heart is an organ that still works.
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