Rocco sighed. “I do not have any problems. I do not see why you believe I have any problems.”

“Oh yeah, this guy doesn’t have any problems,” Neil laughed. “Where is Giovanni today, Rocco? Is he busy again?”

Rocco narrowed his eyes on Neil. “Yes, he is busy. We have our own lives. A wild concept. Love can be a disease when it is too intense, you know.”

Now Neil was glaring back at Rocco. Suddenly, the door to the apartment clicked open and Jahan appeared. The kitchen was packed now. Jahan set the dark bottles of wine on the counter and looked at us, took a whiff, and frowned. I was positive he could smell the tension just as strongly as the tomato sauce.

“Allora . . .” Jahan said, getting between Neil and Rocco. “I haven’t seen you two in such close quarters since—well, anyway. Neil, the salad is looking great, isn’t it? You always make the most delicious salads.”

Neil smiled and left the kitchen with the shakers.

Rocco exhaled. He seemed relieved to have Neil out of his hair. Jahan merrily threw an arm around Rocco’s shoulder.

“Remember that amazing Bolognese your mother used to make for us, Rocco? I still have dreams about that Bolognese. Creamy, saucy, delicious dreams.” Jahan looked over at the pot of water on the stove. “I trust this pasta will be right up there, won’t it?”

Then he turned to me. “Hey, Amir. The water is boiling.”

Fourteen Days Ago

IT WAS A cool Italian night, the stars in full view over the rooftop of Rigatteria. Broken windowpanes and antique furniture were scattered all over the giant wooden deck. At my last Italian lesson, Francesco explained to me—through Neil, who translated his broken English—that Rigatteria was actually built on the side of a mound called Monte Testaccio, which used to be where ancient Romans all disposed of their olive oil jars. We were partying atop millions of broken antique shards.

About fifteen people were taking turns breaking a piñata when I arrived. I’m not going to describe the piñata in detail, except to say that it was exceptionally phallic.

Meanwhile, Jahan was trying to convince a group of Italians that gorgonzola is the gayest cheese.

“Ascoltami,” he said. He noticed me out of the side of his eye. “Sembra che tu stia succhiando un cazzo quando lo dici. Gorrrrgonnnzzzoollllaaaaa,” he stretched out the word and made a sexual gesture with his hand and mouth.

“Gorrgonnzoolaaa,” one of the boys said.

“Gorrggohhrrrhgghhh,” said a girl with pink streaks in her hair. She practically choked on the word. Jahan explained to me what was going on, and I agreed that although I might have previously questioned how cheese could have a sexual orientation, after this debate, I fully believed that gorgonzola was the gayest cheese.

I looked around for Neil and Francesco. Between the penis piñata and the gorgonzola debate, it didn’t seem like quite the right mood for a proposal tonight. Though I should have been used to these gay blends of silly and serious. It seemed to be the tempo of my life these days.