massimo was a beautiful man. he was not perfect. but beauty lies in the accumulation of imperfections into a coherent whole. he was short, merely centimeters taller than me. but his eyes were dark, warm, and thoughtful, and his always active hands were so expressive he barely needed to talk. though he was italian, so he did. a lot. i was infatuated with his hands, with the movements and his habits. he had this peculiar way of shaking his hands to express astonishment (an emotion he apparently felt often, as if he were a child and the world still constantly presented him with wonders never before seen). he would shake his wrist back and forth so rapidly that his fingers would snap together. i've never seen anyone else able to do this. he didn't like his glasses so whenever we would sit at a bar he would take them off. i liked to put them on, pretend like i could see the world through his eyes.

it's hard to imagine something more romantic than walking home through paris streets stopping to kiss someone every few feet. it took three times as long to get to my house as it should have. well, maybe not romance, but something of lust and pure desire and a gentle affection. i liked his intelligence and the way he spoke to me. i can't remember now how he kissed, but i remember he tasted of cigarettes and beer or coffee, something acidic and bitter. i feel wierd, remembering so little of my relationship with him. but it wasn't a relationship, we didn't get to know each other, really. what did we laugh about? i have no clue. god, i'm even beginning to forget who i was then. has it been so long? have i changed so much? would he know me now? would i know me then? suddenly i'm overwhelmed.