And if you want to be alone
Or someone to share a laugh
Whatever you want me to
All you got to do is ask

Willow – Joan Armatrading

I watched the other people.  Waiting, as we were, for loved ones or colleagues or friends or, maybe, someone to do with work (although that was less likely).  We all watched each other.  Checking to see if the person or persons being met were ‘special’.  Was there even a tinge of jealousy in that?

Nobody looked happy.  All solemn faces, solemnly watching each other but, obviously, pretending we weren’t.  Some standing, some sitting.  Some anxious – standing as close as they could to the exit doors where soon, the loved ones/friend/whoever would appear, bag in hand or trailing the bag behind them on wheels.

I arrived and the plane was due to land at any minute.  I went and sat down in my usual place, more or less.  My usual place, I say, since the same as last time (was it really as far back as August) when I went to pick up Best Mate.  I knew that it would be about half an hour and yet, with a slight feeling of stupidity, when the first tranche of people started coming through about five minutes later, I am scanning the people, just in case, you know?

The guy next to me, seemingly as miserable as all the rest – as me, in fact.  But, since I wasn’t miserable at all, it was just a thing, a thing we must all do, I guess.

I wondered how I would feel.  I wondered if I would be happy, genuinely happy, to see him at a distance, before we touched, before we kissed, before…before…..

I wondered if I would smile, I mean, really smile or, whether, since it has only been just over a week since I first met him for real, it would not be the same.  I am plagued by doubts and self-doubts.  It has always been like this, it’s not new.  It annoys me intensely and I wonder if everyone is this bad or if it’s just me.  Not just by this sort of thing but by everything.  Grrrr.

I think about going to get a beer – but worry that I might miss him and I had told him I would be there, so I must be there; I must keep my promise.  Not that keeping promises is difficult, no, but this is more important.  Not even 5 minutes late would be acceptable – at least, to me.

I think about going for a fag; I could watch through the glass doors; I decide not to, again, just in case, in the second that my eyes were averted, lighting the cigarette, distracted by someone outside or something, he came through.  I didn’t go.

Another wave of people came through.  Some kids with parents, the kids small enough to go under the barrier and, on seeing their grandparents, running underneath the bar, shouting ‘Nana, Nana!'; the grandmother getting up and almost running to take the one in her arms.  Bless.

As normal, the people greeting the people from the plane blocked the exit way so that those without anyone there had to fight their way through.  So annoying, I know, having had to do that so many times.  And this is Italy.  It always seems worse.  Complete disregard for those others.

I scan each person as they walk through.  I worry that, perhaps, he will look different than the guy in my head.  The guy in my head is this guy but is it the real guy?  It’s been almost a week since I’ve seen him.  I worry because that is what I do.  I hate that too.  And, normally, it’s unnecessary, in the end but, you know, just one time it might be right to worry?

I see him.  I don’t know if I smile.  Yes, I do, of course I smile.  I smile as I write this, remembering the moment that I saw him.  My heart skipped.  He does that to me.  I think it is good.  I get up and start walking towards him.  He is scanning the people, looking for me.  Our eyes lock.  My smile becomes a grin and he grins back.

He is wonderful.  We kiss on both cheeks but, just for a moment, it seems he is going to kiss me on the lips – and I would have done it too, even if it is in a public place but we are both unsure exactly whether this is right and our faces turn slightly so that we kiss on the cheeks.  I want to grab him and hold him and hug him and smother him in kisses.  I feel so very happy.

He introduces me to his colleague, Ily.  She is taller than me – almost not Italian – I ask her when she gets out of the car at her flat – she confirms that yes, she is very tall for an Italian and an Italian woman in particular – taller than most Italian men.  I guess that must be a problem for her.  She is beautiful.  It is what I would expect one of his colleagues to be.

They both smoke and so we make our way outside.  We stop and have a cigarette.  We talk.  I ask about their trip.  They say they have eaten too much; drunk too much beer (Italians that drink – I just love it!); travelled too much but that, it was wonderful.  I am really pleased.  I’m glad he had a good time.  I would have preferred to be with him, of course, but, still……

We walk to the car.  They both say thank you for me coming to pick them up.  I tell them that it is nothing and, anyway, it’s just as much for me as I get to see F (I’m taking a risk here, and I hope I haven’t jumped the gun but, obviously, his real name wasn’t Gordon at all and now he will be F) and so it’s worth it.  Maybe that was too forward but, using an Italian phrase, I know my chickens or, as Gail would agree, I trust my gut as normally it is right.

F gives me a present – some chocolates – he was in Belgium, after all!  I didn’t expect it and it was nice.

As we drive back into Milan, F tells me about their time away and what they did and, of course, about the concert.  It doesn’t take as long as he thought.  I smile.  I say that there will be other things that he remembers; that he will tell me; later.

My hand is on the gearstick.  He touches my fingers.  We play the game where I go to hold his finger and he pulls away, until I catch it, of course.  But then, it’s a game.  It’s touch.  It’s what we both want

Ily suggests to F, in Italian, that she can get a taxi.  F tells her, in Italian, that certainly not, we shall take her home.  I say ‘esatto’, agreeing with F.  This is why people think that I understand Italian so well, I think to myself.

She does live just round the corner from me (sort of).  I didn’t know the name of the street except our friend L lived there and there is the GS supermarket.  We all get out of the car and Ily gets her bag.  F waits until she is in the door of the block of flats.  I like that, although I don’t say anything.  It’s what I would do.  It’s the right thing to do even if this part of Milan is hardly dangerous.

When we get back in the car he moves towards me and we kiss.  And keep kissing like we are old time lovers who have been separated for a while.  And that is how it feels.  I kiss his hands.  Kissing his hands reminds me that, it seems, many Italian men have what I can only describe as women’s hands.  Shorter fingers, slightly strange shape, I don’t know, sort of small and delicate.  But so many of them do have these hands.  But I smell and taste the shower gel he used this morning.  It’s a nice smell; a nice taste.  I kiss his fingers, kiss the palm of his hand, hold his hand to my face.  We kiss some more.

He says it is a bit embarrassing.  Ily will go into the office and tell everyone that ‘F has a new boyfriend’.  I smile.  We both know that it is not embarrassing at all but that it will be nice for him.  He is out of the office for the next couple of days and so, when he gets back, everyone will know.  What’s also nice is that he said it and so, I guess, we are now ‘boyfriends’.  This makes me smile, even as I write it for you.

He asks how I found him on Facebook.  I remind him that he gave me his card.  I tell him that I keep two things – the two things he gave me – his card and the drawing with the beautiful writing.  I say that he probably thinks I am stupid for keeping them (knowing that he will not think it’s stupid).  He replies that he doesn’t think it is stupid – and I know this to be true also.

We drive round the corner to find a better place to park.  He thanks me for coming again.  He really is happy to see me and I him.  We kiss some more and I stroke his ears.  He stops me.  It turns him on.  I like that.

He suggests that, maybe, I can come over on Saturday as I could stay the night….

Later, in between more kisses, he says that perhaps I can come over on Friday night…….

Later still, he says, maybe even Thursday night.  I had been stroking his ears, after all

He asks what plans I have for the weekend.  I say that I have none specifically but that I would cancel them anyway to be with him.  Which is not a lie but absolutely the truth.  I add that, obviously, I do have the dogs and they cannot be cancelled.  He understands. He talks about dinner and staying the night.  So he really wants me too.

He stops me stroking his ears but the fact that he is turned on means that I am turned on too.  I keep saying that I must take him home as he needs to sleep.  I know he does and now, now that I have had some kissing and cuddling, I can wait for the rest.  Now that I have held him and kissed his hand and seen that he is pleased to see me and know that it is true, I can wait.

And I don’t need to pose any questions, rhetorical or not, from the previous post.  I know.  Really know.  Am really happy with that knowledge.  I briefly think about telling him/asking him anyway and decide it is not necessary.  No, know it is not necessary.  I am his new boyfriend, after all.

We talk about his new flat.  I still want to say ‘move in with me’ but know that is not an option, right now.  There will be time.  We have all the time in the world.  Except now.  Now it is nearly midnight and he will be getting up at 5.30 and me soon after.

I take him home.  I drop him off.  I watch him walk into the building and on to his door.  He waves at me and blows kisses and smiles.

I get home.  I sit at my computer and he is on Facebook. He is trying to upload a small video he has made of the Diva.  It is not working.  We start chatting.  He asks me why is it not working.  I say that I don’t know but if I were there then maybe I would.  He replies ‘si’.  I say that I would be there at any time – all he has to do is ask and he should know that.  He replies ‘si’.  We both know and we both feel comfortable in that knowledge.

As I write this, of course, doubts and uncertainty come back but not so bad.  I know that he wants me to come over; wants us to have dinner; wants us to spend a relaxing (depending on your point of view) time together; to make it last.

I don’t know how long we shall last – 1 day, 1 week, 1 month, 1 year, for the rest of our lives but, oh, does it feel good right now.  I hope for more and will be happy with it, whatever.  No one can know the future but we can, at least, try, can’t we?

And, you know, what I really want, is, the next day, to do the new thing – to go for breakfast at that café.  It’s one of the new things and, more importantly, one of the things that belongs to F & me.  I am his new boyfriend and it belongs to us; it’s one of ‘our’ things.