He laughs and taps two fingers against the steering wheel. My phone buzzes against my thigh. I do not look down.
The city presses closer as we leave the wide road behind and enter the older streets, where everything narrows and deepens. Buildings rise on either side in faded ocher and cream, their shutters half-open, their balconies crowded with plants that look like they have survived centuries of heat and neglect out of spite. Laundry hangs above the street. A woman in red sandals steps out of a doorway with a cigarette between her fingers and turns her face toward the sun. A waiter in a white apron carries a stack of glasses across a terrace with the easy speed of someone who has already broken one today and refuses to break another.
Rome never waits for you to get settled. It keeps moving. It expects you to catch up. I prefer cities like that.
The hotel is tucked into a side street near the Campo de’ Fiori, discreet enough that I almost miss it until the driver brakes at a stone entrance with brass numbers polished to a quiet shine. He gets my suitcase from the trunk, sets it on the curb, and gives me the particular assessing look of men who assume a woman traveling alone might need some form of warning.
“You know where you go tonight?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Good.” He points down the street.
“Do not eat where they show you pictures.”
“I never do.”
He grins. “Then you know everything.”
“Not everything,” I say, taking the handle of my suitcase.
“Enough to be useful.”
Inside, the lobby is cool, tiled, and scented faintly with lemon polish. A ceiling fan turns above the front desk. The woman checking me in has silver hair pulled into a sleek knot, sharp cheekbones, and the kind of black dress that makes the word uniform feel insulting. Her name tag saysLucia.
“Signora Cole,” Lucia says, looking at my passport.
“Welcome back to Rome.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You have stayed with us before.”
“Three years ago.”
“For the spring artichokes,” she says.
I look up from the form. “You remember that?”
Lucia’s mouth curves.
“You asked our concierge where to eat carciofi alla giudia and then did not accept his first answer.”
“He sent me to a place with laminated menus.”
“He was new,” Lucia says, as if this explains both the failure and the shame of it.
“He is no longer with us.”
“That feels appropriate,” I say.
Her smile widens by half an inch.
“Your room is ready. Second floor. Courtyard side, as requested.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you need dinner recommendations?”