She took my hand, sweetly, possessively, drawing me along with her, at her pace, happily humming a little something between her teeth and consciously savoring the feeling of being insouciant. I followed along, responded to the pressure of her inquiring hand, turned every once in a while to share her gaze and tried to reassure her with a look so that we would not have another round of how are you. She cared and she cared too much. I went along with it as far as I could. She wanted so much to love.

The sun was heavy on our shoulders. We had arrived. The delicious sound of myriad fountains mitigated the overwhelming power of the sun. Water poured forth from the unlikeliest places and in the unlikeliest shapes: obscenely, from ancient brown sculptures of pendulous breasts in muted stone; ominously, from the limpid eyes of an ugly pagan god. The walks were ingeniously arranged. There was one little path you could squeeze by, lowering your head a bit to escape the cascading water and then be surrounded by the thundering fountains, feeling the damp coolness pouring waves of comfort all around, enclosed womb-like in a world of water.

water.

She held fast to my hand even there and we shared our growing excitement. "Wait till you see it by night! Didn't I tell you... Bella bella..."

"Villa d'este," I said, prenouncing the syllables meaningfully. "I love the

دو

"So do I."

She always wanted to share. Un etre de sympathie. All she needed in life was to be given the opportunity to agree. All she needed was to be given the chance to love.

And all I needed was to hide. No, that wasn't true. I needed too. But did I need her? I asked myself that question, over and over, until it became a gaping ruin in my consciousness, a hellhole of doubt, smouldering like an old Roman ruin at dusk after a hot day's onslaught from the Roman sun.

We came out of the little shelter and onto new paths. She scouted for a place to settle. I pointed to a shady spot where she could spread her drawing paper and sketch while I could curl up with pencil and paper.

That was the plan. We had come out to the Villa d'Este for the day. She, the artist; I, the writer; she, the pursuer, I, the pursued; she, the certain woman, I the uncertain fellow; she, the earth mother; I, the nervous air bubble; she, the stalker, I, the prey; she, the lover, I, the beloved.

She accepted my suggestion. We plumped down on the shady path, miraculously cooled by the fine spray from delinquent fountains. It was deliciously damp all around us, mildewed and redolent of the musky odor of pollen, bilge and exquisite mossy decay. She took her provisions out from her all-purpose bag: pad, pastels, subtle pinpoints with which to capture the colors from nature, and then refreshments: a thermos full of aranciata, the distilled essence of fruity pulpiness sacrificed by many oranges in season, a thick panino and two sprawling slabs of salami and provolone—a divine collation for mid-afternoon artist fatigue.

"What else do you have in there?" I mocked.

"What else do you want, dear?"

"Nothing. I just marvel at how you get it all in there."

"Semper paratus," she chirped, in her little girl tone, not sure whether she was being made fun of or being hurt. The little girl tone covered a multitude of hurtful situations.

I got out my own pad of lined yellow paper and confronted it. She was already sketching me.