Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

"Why? Because I took so long?"

"Because you look, like, so awake and stuff. I don't know how you girls manage that. When I travel, I look like a pair of old boots."

"We ladies have our secrets," she declares with pride.

"Well," he responds enthusiastically, "I'm all for that."

Not gay, she thinks. "Listen, it's only plane travel," she says, touching his arm. "Nobody expects anyone to look their best."

"You're sure doing pretty good," he says, voice subsiding at the baldness of the compliment. "Anyhow," he picks up, "I reckon I'll go freshen up a bit myself. Even if I'm not working with so much."

"Oh stop it."

He returns, slapping damp hands against his cheeks. "Better." He drops into his seat. "Better."

"So," she says. "Anyway."

A moment of silence.

"So," she attempts again, "do you like living in Rome? Do you have millions of friends and everything?"

"Sort of. I mean not millions. I didn't speak any Italian at the get-go, which held me back."

"Still, I bet you had tons of girls chasing you, right? The single American journalist and all that."

"Not so much. For a while, I dated this girl from New Zealand that worked at this pub near my place."

"And where's that?"

"My place? In Monti. Via dei Serpenti."

"Cool area."

"Small apartment, but yeah. You know, one thing I learned in Rome is that the Italians are real friendly and stuff, but they got their cliques. You know? They hang out their whole lives with the same people they met in first grade. And if you weren't at that school, well, you're never getting a dinner invite. You know what I mean?"

"Absolutely. That's so Italian."

"Kind of hard to break into. For an American. Easier, I guess, for girls. Those slick Italian guys and so forth."

"You haven't bought into that Latin-lover myth, have you? Let me tell you a secret: Italian guys-and I know, I married one-are prima donnas, not studs. And I refuse to fall for a guy whose wardrobe is better than mine. A lot of these Italians, they're like little boys. My son, Henry, is way more mature and he's thirteen. A lot of them are still having Mama do their laundry, turn up their jeans, fix them mortadella sandwiches for lunch. They never quite get over it." She wiggles her nose. "What, me bitter? Sorry-no more tirades, I swear."

"It's kind of good to hear this, actually. I spent the last couple of years feeling like one big pile of American slob."

"Listen." She touches his arm confidentially. "You've seriously got nothing to worry about."

"Keep it coming. This is good for my ego after, like, two years of seeing Italian guys in pink sweaters and orange pants and, like, pulling it off. You know what I'm saying?"

She laughs.

"To tell the truth," he goes on, "the past six months or so, I've sort of given up on all that. On getting to know some Italian woman. Like, lost a bit of patience."

"How do you mean?"

"I guess I'm tired of getting burned. I know that sounds cynical. And, if you talked to me in my twenties and thirties, I used to be the most romantic guy. You should've seen me at my wedding. I was the one who pushed for a big ceremony. My ex wanted it all restrained. But I'm crazy that way. Over the top that way. Life'd be easier if I weren't a dumb romantic. But that's me. So."

"It's not a bad thing."

"Maybe. Makes life complicated, though."

"Anything that's worth anything is complicated. Don't you think? Or is that stupid?"

"No, no. You're probably right."

"My problem is the amount of time I spend on my job-honestly, I wonder if I'd even have time for a proper relationship anymore. And I'm way too embarrassed to admit when my last one was."

"Oh, come on."

"I'm not telling. Seriously. You don't want to know. Henry says I'm substituting work for love. That's Henry, thirteen going on thirty. I think another problem is-and I don't want this to sound conceited-is that a lot of guys can be intimidated by me. I think I can come off as too driven, too career-oriented. I don't know. Not mean-hearted, I hope. That's completely not who I am. But you can't be weak in the job I have. You have to be tough or everybody walks all over you. That's how it goes. People think I'm some kind of storm trooper. But I actually don't have a lot of confidence; I'm pretty shy. I know I don't come off that way. But-" She checks his response. "Way too much information, right? Sorry, I'm blabbing."

"Not at all. I get you. I believe every person on this planet needs human contact to be normal, to be sane. Simple as that. And, I'll admit, I'm no exception."

She hadn't been brave enough to say it so directly, didn't want to appear the pathetic single mother. "Maybe you have a point," she says. "I mean, it's probably just normal."

"More than normal."

She crosses her legs tightly-she's dying to pee. She was too busy prettifying herself before to remember to use the toilet. She doesn't want to seem like she has a bladder problem, but she can't hold it much longer. "I'm going to stretch my legs a second," she says. Instead of using the toilet at the front of the plane, she saunters toward the tail. Out of his sight, she sidesteps into the bathroom. She sits in there after she's done, thinking.

She smells her forearm, which touched his. He has a particular scent-kind of nice, actually. What is it? Manly. Skin smell. Wonder what his place in Via dei Serpenti is like. Empty wine bottles, half-burnt candles, wax stains in the rug. A small place, he said, which suggests that he's there alone. She couldn't invite him to her place in Rome, with the kids. Well, eventually, maybe. For the next few days, she's got a four-star hotel room in Atlanta. She gets a tingle. Forget it, you freak. But it would be nice to hang out a bit. Talk. He's cute, no? Surprisingly. Totally natural. Nice to have a bit of company. A proper grown-up. Having a man around again. Forgotten what that's like. This hotel they always put her in-wouldn't it be cool if… Hang on. Stop. This is the travel coma speaking: getting all weird and flirty. The Ott board meeting. Think about that. Should get this guy's number, though. Find out when he gets back to Rome. Meet up there.

The in-flight movie is starting when she gets back. He has her headphones ready. It's a comedy. She keeps the volume low so she can still hear herself-she doesn't want to giggle too loudly or too stupidly or not enough. He has a nice chuckle. Wry, honest. When he laughs, he turns to her, twinkling. "We need popcorn."

"You're so right!"

The stewardess trundles a trolley down the aisle, delivering the second meal.

Abbey checks her watch. "Which is this? Lunch number two? Feels like dinner."

"Sort of a dinner-lunch," Dave says.

"What would you call that? A dlunch?"

"Or a linner."

"Unless it's a mix of lunch and supper. Then you've got slupper," she says. "Or slunch."

"Slunch. I like that. We should trademark that."

We? Hmm. Interesting.

"Hey, listen, Dave," she says. "We should get together sometime in Rome. Don't you think? Get a coffee or a drink or something? When you get back."

"Yeah, totally. That's a good idea."

"You should give me your number."

"My number in Rome?"

"Yeah."

"I don't have one there."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't live there anymore."

Each of them is puzzled by the other.

"I don't live there anymore," he repeats. "Can't afford two rents."

"Two? Where's the other?"

"In San Jose."

"I'm totally lost here."

"My new job. In San Jose, California."

"Oh, oh, oh," she says, faking a smile. "I'm so stupid. I thought you meant-when you said before you'd got a new job-I stupidly assumed you meant in Rome."

"No, no, I don't have papers to work in Europe anymore. And, anyhow, I was ready to get back to the States."