Lasix and Pizza

By 9:15 AM my cell phone had shrilled three times, interrupting me, and my stream, in mid-stream each time.

Interruptions like these bring me to a stress-anxiety-exasperation level I thought possible only in New York. To get the stream going again when I finish the conversation is frustrating and sometimes impossible. I came all the way back to easy-going Roma, the city of my dreams, to live like this?

The first time the cell sounded this morning I was in the privacy of home. Tiger and Scampolo poked around the bathroom for a moment but left without disturbing me. The second and third time I was in a public handicapped facility, meaning spacious and less of a line but no lock on the door. So, in addition to the double whammy of the ringing phone and the ringing phone finding its way to the remotest corner of my overstuffed purse, I could not keep the door shut by extending a leg or an arm and had to hope the people waiting their turn would have the good sense to knock before turning the handle.

No such luck.

Each time I answered, Renato was on the other end calling to let me know his whereabouts with the Mercedes and when to expect him.

At moments like this, I would rather return to the hot flash phase of my existence. The upside would give me back 15 years of my youth. Heaven-sent. The downside would find me living in New York City again. Hell-bent.

Not that I have a choice. I can’t reclaim the 15 years and I can’t forgo my daily dose.

By the time Renato arrived I had put a jovial and sincere smile on my face and was ready to start another day. The morning included three more rest stops before lunchtime, which could have easily been six. Lasix has that effect on people. However, performing my (day) job, I was unable to give in to all my urges.

At least the cell didn’t ring again.

Renato and I had a fine time at work together. Sitting next to him in the Mercedes I noticed under the dashboard between us a paperback Bible in Italian he probably reads in his down time. I hope it brings him a measure of solace. That grace may descend, that he may transcend.

That evening I decided to go to the local pizzeria for take out. In the summer the owners put most of their tables out in the piazza in front of a small church, and every night of the week a mob of Romans and tourists mill about, sometimes for 30 or 40 minutes or more, to secure their place under the stars caressed by a cool breeze after the scorching heat of day.

The overburdened waiters scurried non-stop in and out between the kitchen, pizza oven, cashier and piazza, arms and hands laden with food and drink, as I waited at one of the few indoor tables for my thin crust mushroom and mozzarella in a box. After a minute or two a mother and son came in to place their order.

The mother, a petite blonde, attractive and attractively clad in tight black top and slacks, took a seat near me. Even though empty chairs ringed her table, without a word or gesture between them her son enthroned himself, facing forward, on her lap, as if her lap were the most natural, really the only, place for him. With dark eyes and straight jet-black hair that fell over one side of his forehead, the boy was very handsome indeed. He wore a black top and white slacks. With their deep golden tans, they looked beach clean and beach relaxed. The boy’s height seemed to indicate he was younger than I thought, his face, older than I thought. When I paid him a compliment his mother said with a soft smile that he was 12.

As they waited for their order, she placed an arm around his waist and dreamily rocked her upper body back and forth, resting her head on his back with each forward movement. Madonna and child, the fleeting moment was yours to savor.

From a distance, I savored your moment, too, silently acknowledging my good fortune to be living in Rome again.