When he kisses my cheek, I cannot help it, I press him against me. I can tell Donato doesn’t believe this, but he doesn’t say so. I say goodbye to her friends, making up an excuse that Paul wants us home. We can pick up a pizza on the way home.” I wipe the smeared mascara from under her eyes and point her toward the stairs. “Call us a ride, and I’ll get your backpack. “Come on.” I pull her up from the settee. “Hush.” Instinctively I look around to see if any of their friends are watching. “Only by five years.” Her body starts to shake, tears fall on my shoulder. “Do you think Silvia is very pretty?” Tiny lights strung across the terrace turn on and I can see her watery eyes.
Of course, they are together, and why should that matter to me anyway? Hannah puts her head on my shoulder. “Come downstairs with me.” I feel every cell bristle.
I ask Hannah to get me water but Donato volunteers. It’s reminded me of just after Hannah was born, of those late-night phone calls where my sister cried and told me that she wished she had terminated the pregnancy. I can feel the heat of her body through our clothes. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”-their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls-“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions.
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