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He would come to the wine bar where I hung out, dressed in his royal-blue coveralls that never showed a bit of grease or grime.He would never drink more than a single glass of red wine and never seemed to speak to anyone while he was there.
We learned about the gaze, the other, the objectification of women. Indeed, Rome brought out in me a lack of criticalness that verged on derangement. The men at the bakery, the men behind the bars, the men picking up the garbage.
When I finally returned one night I found him standing outside, drinking whiskey from a lowball glass. I ordered my wine and talked with my friends, trying to ignore him but aware that he was staring at my back.
After a few minutes he approached my group, but before he could say anything I turned and walked out the door.
So as nice as my nights were with Fabrizio, it was time to move on.
The other men had seemed to understand that I was a young American student in Rome for a few short months who just wanted to have fun without obligations. At first I simply avoided him by not going to the wine bar for a while.
When I discovered he was an unemployed drug addict, I decided to try my luck elsewhere, but didn’t hold it against him. He had deep blue eyes and long black hair and wore a black turtleneck underneath a stone-colored trench coat.