"What are you thinking about?"
Max's voice filled my ears as I leaned against his shoulder, our chests rising and falling to the same rhythm. The faint scent of his cologne filled my senses; it was a smell I'd grown accustomed to.
Rome now smelled like coffee, flowers, the way that the ground smells after being kissed by raindrops, and Max.
We sat upon the Spanish steps, after having spent an entire day in art museums and eating so much food that I could barely walk.
Now, we each had empty cups of gelato next to us as we watched crowds of people walk past, absorbed in their own busy live. It turns out Max ended up liking gelato.
"Do you have a bucket list?" I leaned back, craning my head to peer up at him. He adjusted the collar of his shirt and turned to face me. The sun behind us outlined his sharp jaw as it was clenched in thought.
"No," he admitted, "I don't like lists. Besides, I feel like I have done everything I've wanted to do."
I shook my head in disbelief, tracing the vein protruding from the skin in his arm with my fingers.
"There has to be something."
I found it difficult to believe that anyone could possibly have done everything they desired. The world was too big to have explored all of it.
"It's really cliche, but I do want to see the seven wonders of the world."
Burying my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I nodded contently.
"How many have you seen so far?"
A smile crept onto his pink lips as Max stood to his feet. He held a hand out to help me up, which I gladly took.
"So far, just you."
My cheeks burned as I walked down the steps with him. The Spanish Steps were framed by historical buildings, with a Roman Catholic church sitting at the top. At the bottom of the steps was a vast fountain.
Fontana della Barcaccia. The Fountain of the Old Boat.
It was just what it sounded like. Renaissance-style artwork was conveyed through a boat in the middle of the fountain, the water running through it clear as the sky.
"Do you always speak to women this way?" I joked with Max as we walked past the fountain and down the road, our arms linked. Another flower had found its home behind my ear; it'd become a tradition.
He shook his head and stopped walking, bringing a hand up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His bright eyes held amusement as he studied my puzzled expression.
"Only the ones that attack me on bridges."
I rolled my eyes and playfully nudged his shoulder as we continued down the sidewalk.
Before I could respond, a man shouted from across the street, both of our heads snapping in his direction.
"Max! Ciao!" He shouted, waving his hands in the air. He was old, holding a cane in his hand as he walked down the path, a newspaper tucked under his arm, the wrinkles near his eyes deepening with his smile.
Max's face lit up as he waved at the man, his hands in the air.
"Mr. Moretti! Felice di vederti!"
I recognized Max's words to mean 'nice to see you.' In the little downtime I had, I would read through some common Italian phrases.
The man smiled lovingly before continuing down the sidewalk, and I faced Max.
"Who was that?"
He shrugged, still staring at the spot where the man stood.
"My neighbor," he said nonchalantly.
My eyes widened and I smacked his arm.
"You live across the street from here?"
He chuckled, his shoulders shaking with laughter, and pointed at the building the man had walked out of. It seemed to be about five stories high, blending right in with the other residence apartments.
"Yes. Right in there."
I checked to see if the road was clear, and even though we were nowhere near the crosswalk, I took Max's hand in mine and ran across the street, ignoring the people yelling at us for being careless.
When we ended up in front of the building, Max spun me to face him.
"There's really nothing to see," he said, but when he saw my hopeful eyes and how eager I was, his face softened. "I guess I have some paintings I can show you."
I nodded eagerly and followed him into the building and up two flights of stairs. On the way up, he greeted nearly everyone he saw. An old woman and a middle-aged man on the first floor, two children on the second, and another woman who I assumed lived right next to him.
When they saw him, their faces lit up. It was a pattern I recognized.
We finally came to a stop in front of a white door, and I was nearly bouncing up and down in excitement as Max unlocked it.
"You're really cute when you're excited," he remarked as he pushed the door open. I walked in first, taking in the powerful aroma of coffee and what smelled to be vanilla.
He was right. There wasn't much to it.
There was a small couch in the corner of the room, in front of a TV and a gaming console. The living room was small, adjacent to a tidy kitchen and a wooden dining table with four chairs.
There seemed to be two rooms down the hall, and another door that could've led to the restroom.
Max walked in and set his jacket on the couch before hanging his keys up. He threw his hands in the air, as if to welcome me.
"Welcome to my residence," he announced in a deep voice, "I hope you enjoy your visit."
I laughed as I walked past him and into the kitchen. There was a cookbook laid out on the marble counter, with an open bag of flour and carton of eggs beside it.
Max was beside me, his gaze following mine.
"My roommate's not the neatest person," he laughed before putting the items away.
"Is he here?" I asked, my voice full of hope. I was curious to see what the person who lived with Max was like, and only imagined him to be just as wonderful.
He shook his head and took my hand, leading me back to where the three doors were.
"Don't be startled," he warned as he twisted the doorknob, "I am quite the artist."
I bit my lip in anticipation as he swung the door open, revealing a room with light blue walls. It was larger than I'd expected, with various posters of Italian bands plastering the concrete.
In the corner was a neatly made bed and a small dresser, which had countless medicines laid out on top of it. I quickly averted my gaze and walked over to the other end of the room, taking in the easels and paintings that became clearer the closer I got.
They were... childish. Cartoonish, almost. The colors were bright and unblended, the first one that caught my eye being what was meant to be an airplane in a sky.
It was messy and oddly cute.
I glanced over to Max to see that he was stifling a laugh, his face growing red from holding his breath. Finally, he gave in and clutched his stomach in laughter as he studied my puzzled expression.
"These are..." I licked my lips, unsure of what to say, but Max beat me to it.
"Terrible, I know," he said, recovering from his fit. He walked over to where paint brushes and paints were sprawled out onto a table and picked one up.
I was hesitant, but when I saw his humored expression, I began to laugh as well.
"Not terrible," I said, walking closer to the set of others. "More like... abstract."
He gave me an absurd look and both of us shared laughter before I took a seat on his bed beside him.
"You don't have to lie. I just wanted to try it out. And it adds to my legacy."
I nodded in understanding, then raised my eyebrows in wonderment.
"What do you mean?"
He swept his unruly hair to one side with his hand, and took his lower lip between his teeth before speaking.
"Mrs. Ricci downstairs thinks I can sing. The Rossi twins think I'm an excellent chef. And now, I can tell people that I paint."
He spoke slowly, his deep voice making its way to my ears but not making much sense. When he sensed my confusion, he spoke again.
"When I told you that I had some paintings I could show you, did you assume that they would be good?"
I nodded slowly.
"It's a natural response. I want to be remembered. And people will more likely remember me as Max, the guy who can paint, than just Max."
He'd shared his odd philosophies with me before, but this one took the longest for me to wrap my head around. But it did make sense the more that I thought about it.
"So you want to be remembered?" I found myself asking, enjoying how comfortable he'd become with me. These were personal thoughts, and I was fortunate enough to hear them.
Max nodded as he dug through his dresser's drawer for something. It was a journal, bound in dark brown leather.
"Doesn't everybody?" He was speaking to me, but seemed to be lost in his own actions as he flipped through the journal. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for.
I didn't want to be nosy, but I found myself wanting to peer over his hands at the words scribbled messily into the paper, a storm of curiosity in my mind.
"What is that?" I finally asked.
Max closed it, keeping one finger on the page that he flipped to, and held it out in front of his chest.
"Every time I meet someone interesting, I write about them in this."
He seemed excited as he explained it to me, his eyes shining. And a smile crept onto his lips as opened the journal to his chosen spot. I was still too far to read his messy writing, but it seemed like he wanted to show me the width of the pages instead of the actual words. He held more than half of the pages between his fingers, leaving maybe 5 or 10 in the front.
"One page per person. But all of these pages belong to you."
My mouth was agape as I studied the journal. There were at least 50 pages in between his fingers, and a sudden rush of emotions overwhelmed me.
"I can't be that interesting," I laughed, uneasily shifting on the bed. I played with a the fray threads on the edge of the comforter, rendered speechless by his words.
Max sighed and set the journal back in its drawer.
"You have no idea, Amora." He lept onto his feet and nodded for me to follow. "Let's go."
Still shocked by his words, I stood to follow. A part of me wanted to take the journal and read every page of it, but I knew that I couldn't.
"Where?" I straightened my shirt and snatched myself out of my intruding thoughts.
"Wherever the night takes us." Max waited by the door for me to follow, and I glanced around the room once more. My heart dropped a bit when I realized that I'd probably never come here again.
And right as I was about to turn and leave the room, a small painting that I'd missed before caught my eye. It was behind the others and not too big.
In the middle of the white canvas was a rose, and it was probably one of the only distinguishable paintings in the collection.
The rose was wedged between an ear and long hair, and I touched my own hair subconsciously. It was the same shade.
A smile spread across my lips, but sadness welled up inside of my heart.
When Max painted, he thought of me.
And as lovely as it seemed, it was just as tragic. Because one day, all I'd be left with would be those paintings and the memories of his sweet words and sweet cologne.
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photo credit: http://www.hotelmorgana.com/en/spanish-steps-rome-hotel/