I have a friend from Milano. His name is Marco. I’ve known him for years and years. Since we met on a train to Brussels. He took me to meet his friends. And I got involved with one of them. Things didn’t end well with him. He was a player. (Marco’s friend, not him.)

And for a long while, Marco and I lost touch.

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Many years later, we reconnected. You were on Facebook. I wasn’t. But I signed in just to look you up. There you were. An indescribable feeling. To see you, after all that time.

Since then, we became friends again. And have been now, for several years. You live in Dubai, in a high rise. I live in Minnesota in a suburb with lots of parks and friendly neighbors. You travel every week, to exotic locations, like Egypt, Oman, and Saudi Arabia (although you do say you hate that place). And back to your home in Italy, and to our old neighborhood in Brussels. I travel a bit only to see family, in Tennessee or Texas occasionally.

We have chatted a lot exchanging details that have shaped us. I told you of losing my friend to suicide, when I had just that day, found out. You told me of your childhood in the church, and that now you don’t care for faith.

I told you, on one occasion, “I'm so uncultured. Once I went to see Nutcracker, and already my mind was having ***** thoughts, and the male dancers came out in their tights, and did a very ladylike dance, where they jumped up and down on their toes, to a twinkly, upbeat tune. I giggled so much I got “shushed.” But still I couldn’t stop.
The more I giggled, the louder I got!"

You said, “I should take you to the opera. My mom used to take me to Verona." You said it was splendid and phenomenal. And I was instantly sold. I said, "I won’t understand anything." And you said, "Yes you will." I imagined myself like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, tears running down my cheeks at the end.

But, you know you can’t take me to the opera in Verona.
Because I might fall in love with you.