As promised, Giancarlo is still waiting outside when I walk out through the wrought iron gate. He’s leaning against the wall of the building next door, a cigarillo in hand, looking the other way. As I step outside I see that he’s ogling a young woman who’s walking by. He mutters something quietly to her, and she turns around and smiles at him before continuing on her way.

It’s just hit me that I really don’t want to go out on this date. At all.

There was a time on my first day in Rome when Giancarlo was appealing. He represented the potential to be a little naughty, to indulge in pleasure that might not be good for me. But now I’ve got that feeling that comes when I consider eating a burger before realizing that filet mignon is also on the menu.

Giancarlo is a cheap fucking burger, slathered in greasy cheese.

Dylan is filet mignon. Rare. Delicious.

If I had any doubts about what kind of guy Giancarlo is, they’re pretty well gone now. Seeing him hitting on another woman is almost enough to make me turn around and pop back into my apartment, fly over to Dylan’s place and tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather spend the evening reading the Roman phone book out loud with him than hang out with a skeezy bastard like Mr. Curly. Ironically, Giancarlo’s exactly the kind of guy I use for my one-night stands. Someone I’d never fall for. Someone safe, but attractive enough to want to see naked. Somehow, I’ve lost my taste for his type over the last few days.

He turns my way and spots me, letting out a low whistle before dropping his smoke to the ground to squish it under his sandal. I’d almost forgotten that I’d changed into this dress, and suddenly I’m hoping it doesn’t make him think I’m looking for attention.

“Che bella,” he says, stepping towards me. His breath smells foul, which is a perfect excuse to keep my distance.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping it’s in a neighbourhood I know, in case I need to make a quick escape.

“A favourite ristorante of mine. Very close by. It’s the place where I work.”

“Oh? Are you a chef?” I ask.

He laughs. “I’m a waiter,” he replies.

“Ah.” I have no problem with waiters whatsoever, but judging by the tone of his voice, Giancarlo doesn’t think too highly of chefs. I get the impression that he’s not exactly ambitious. Not like some architects I know.

For the entire duration of our walk, he talks about himself, never once asking me about my life. Another stark difference between him and Dylan.

“I went to school here in Roma,” he tells me. “For five years.”

“Oh? What did you study?”

He turns my way. “My mother wanted me to be a doctor. So I studied anatomy.” With the utterance of the word he rakes his eyes over my body. “But it wasn’t for me.”

“Ah. You’re not into science, then,” I say, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Now I spend my time at the gym. Heavy lifting,” he tells me, flexing his muscles, which pale in comparison to Dylan’s. Wow, the guy is convinced that he’s super-charming. I almost want to take him under my more experienced wing and give him a quick lesson in how not to talk to women, but it’s actually sort of amusing to watch him do his thing. It’s like a study in douchebaggery.

“Here we are,” he says when we’ve arrived at the restaurant he was talking about. A few seconds later he’s got his hand on my lower back, and he’s guiding me inside. Somehow, his touch feels lecherous. Unlike Dylan’s, which feels sexy, seductive, and…right.

Giancarlo’s hand’s already sliding down, ready to make first contact with my butt when I leap forward to pull myself away from his fingertips. Too aggressive, asshole. Maybe he’s too young to know better. He’s like an overly eager puppy who’s trying to sink his teeth into a squeaky toy, not realizing that the toy bites back.

“Tell me, how old are you?” I ask as we sit down at a table covered in a white linen tablecloth. A candle sits at its centre, illuminating Giancarlo’s face in a slightly diabolical way. He doesn’t look quite so handsome anymore, and I’m glad for it. I’d like to find his face as repugnant as I’m finding his personality.

“Twenty-one,” he tells me. “And you?”

Oh, he finally asked a question about me. How novel and exciting.

“Twenty-seven,” I reply, watching his face for a reaction.

Sure enough, he raises his eyebrows, surprised. “So you are a…what do they call them in America? A…cougar.”

I let out a laugh that’s probably a little too loud. “Not exactly. Most people think I’m still a kid.” Though you’re making me feel like the most mature adult who ever lived.

“No,” he says, “you are not a kid. You are definitely a woman.” His eyes veer to my chest, a smile stretching over his lips. “Una bella donna.”

“Thank you.” I look around at the restaurant, curious to see who else is here, but mostly I’m just eager to get my eyes away from him. Couples sit at other tables, chatting away about their food. I can tell the tourists by their shorts, tank tops, and sneakers. Italians don’t seem to wear sneakers, unless they’re very expensive-looking, very clean and very stylish.

“Have you always lived in Rome?” I ask, turning my eyes back to Giancarlo’s, which are focused on my breasts again. Surprise, surprise. Maybe I should write my questions on my boobs; he’d be more likely to pay attention to what I’m asking.

“Yes,” he says. “Always in Roma.”

“I see,” I say. “And have you always made a habit of staring at women’s tits?”

“Always,” he mutters, before snapping out of his breast-trance, his gaze meeting mine with a shocked expression. His eyes narrow for a moment as though he realizes I was mocking him. Poor horny kid. He has no idea how attractive he could be, if he’d just behave with a little respect.

Well, I suspect that my appeal has just vanished as well. Now that I’ve called him on his sleaze, I seriously doubt if he’ll want to go home with me and do the horizontal pelvic dance.

Thankfully for both of us, a waiter pops over after a moment. As soon as he sees Giancarlo, he erupts into rapid-fire Italian. My pseudo-date responds to him, and I swear that they converse for five minutes while I sit there, completely invisible. They obviously know each other but Giancarlo makes no move to introduce me or even to acknowledge my existence.

After what feels like an eternity of discomfort spent watching Giancarlo and his buddy chuckle about mysterious topics, the waiter finally leaves. Damn, I wish I understood Italian.

“He’s not going to take our order?” I ask.

“I already ordered for us,” Giancarlo says, gesturing with his hand in a way that says how stupid are you to think I was going to let you pick your own food?

“Um, okay,” I say. Wow. This date will easily go down in history as the worst ever. For a moment I chastise myself, wondering if I’m only letting it go badly because I want an excuse to tell myself that Dylan is way better for me than this little asshat.

But it’s true. Dylan is respectful. He asks me about myself. He has a sense of humour. He’s…Dylan.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Giancarlo is so bad as all that. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. If I could just engage him in a proper conversation, maybe we could start over.

“One minute,” he says, rising to his feet as though trying to prove to me that he’s nothing more than a rude jerk-off. I watch as he strides towards the back of the restaurant where a young woman is standing in a white, fitted dress, her hip pressed against the wall. She smiles as he approaches, twining her fingers in her dark hair.

Giancarlo puts a hand on her waist and draws her to him, kissing each of her cheeks for a little longer than seems appropriate. He doesn’t let go of her, but to my amazement, slips his hand up her side and over her chest, then plays with a chain around her neck. While he fondles her jewelry he whispers in her ear, and she looks my way and giggles. It would seem that he’s telling her an amusing anecdote about me. Well, this is pleasant.

For a moment I feel absolutely mortified. Rejected. Stupid. Insecure. He’s making an ass of me, belittling me to some beautiful young woman, and he doesn’t even have enough respect for me to hide his disdain.

It would be so easy to cry right now, to erupt in a flood of self-pitying tears. But then I remember what Dylan told me earlier; that he’s not sure any man deserves me. That was probably one of the nicest things any man’s ever said to me.

At the moment I can think of one man who does deserve me, but he’s not in this restaurant. The good news is that he’s not far away.

With a smile on my face and my chin held high, I rise to my feet, grab my purse and walk out onto the street, letting the restaurant’s door slam shut behind me.

Bye bye, Giancarlo. I’m going home.