The Leftovers

What happens when you choose presence over answers?

Chapter Nine

While searching for a place to have lunch, I stumbled upon pre-wedding bliss: a gorgeous bride and a handsome groom posing for their wedding photos. It was a magazine-worthy photo shoot, the fashionable lovers leaning against an aged backdrop as a photographer gently nudged them into position.

They were picture-perfect, and I couldn’t resist. I snapped a photo as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

At one point, the photographer moved them in front of some questionable graffiti. I wondered if he would photoshop it out.

Best to leave it in. Love isn’t flawless. It’s messy and funny.

The sweetness of the moment followed me to L’Orto di Lucca, where I was lucky to grab the only available outdoor table. The place was packed, mostly with tourists, and a few locals here and there.

When my veggies and spaghetti arrived, I glanced up from my phone and noticed that all the outdoor tables were suddenly empty. Not one living soul remained. Not even a dirty dish as evidence of their existence.

Did I miss an alien abduction? And if so, why hadn’t they taken me?

OMG. Was I the leftover?

Curious passersby slowed their gait, scanning my solitude, trying to make sense of this daytime version of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. One person actually stopped and stared, making me feel like a monkey on display during feeding time at the zoo.

I considered making the experience authentic by throwing my pasta at him, but it was just too good to waste.

I didn’t care. I laughed and ate, then laughed harder when I caught my reflection in the window across the way. All I needed was a banana.

Apparently, even self-love is messy and funny.

I was still chuckling that evening as I got ready to meet the Dutch couple I’d met while waiting for the hotel van in Cinque Terre. Linda and Robin had taken an instant liking to me, and I to them.

They were in town for a few days and wanted to get together for dinner. We met for wine near Piazza San Frediano, where several glasses disappeared quickly.

Robin had an irresistible energy. Outgoing and blunt, he made connecting feel easy, as if you’d known him longer than you had. You couldn’t help but like him.
Linda was warm, nurturing, and witty, with a steadiness that made you feel instantly welcome.

Together, they were happy and loving, enjoying their first holiday without their children.

At some point, Robin mentioned working abroad, which took him away from home for weeks at a time, leaving Linda to manage the kids on her own. Linda added that when their children were young, she once moved overseas for a year so they could be closer to him. She didn’t know the language or the culture and had no idea how anything worked.

And I thought I was brave going to Italy alone for two months.

Their love wasn’t flashy; it was quiet and lived in. I felt a deep respect for Linda — the kind that comes from recognizing a sacrifice you’re not sure you could have made yourself.

We had 7:00pm reservations at La Bottega di Anna e Leo, one of Lucca’s finest. I thought it was the empty restaurant across from our café, but I was wrong. When we arrived fifteen minutes late to the correct one, the host berated us in Italian. He’d given away our reservation.

There we stood, three grown adults, nodding like scolded children before bursting into laughter and retreating.

Over dinner, they invited me to join them the next morning on a drive to shop at the designer outlets outside Florence.

“That’s a long car ride,” I said. “Let’s see how we feel at the end of dinner.”

The following morning, we were on our way to hunt for designer deals. Robin drove, mastering the traffic and winding roads like a pro.

We zipped through the Chianti region with rolling hills stretching like a painting that refused to end. Golden sunlight spilled across vineyards and olive groves. Just when it felt as though civilization had vanished entirely, a small town would appear, like an answered prayer.

We arrived to find busloads of twentysomething Japanese tourists mapping out their shopping plan. I’d been to the outlets twenty years earlier and walked away with Prada deals galore. This time, unless you were on one of those buses, there were no bargains to be found.

On the drive back, Linda talked about her life. Her three kids were grown, and she had returned to working in retail while settling into the quiet reality of being an empty nester. She loved fashion and kept saying how much she liked her job. Then she’d trail off, eyes fixed out the window, before finishing the thought.

Listening to her, I felt a familiar tug. The sense of having arrived somewhere safe while knowing there might still be more.

I hoped she would find it.

That day belonged to my new favorite friends. That night belonged to my favorite guy, Sami.

After my Cinque Terre excursion, I moved out of the murder Airbnb and into my friend Nancy’s family condo, which I had booked before my trip. Coincidentally, it happened to be right across the piazza from Sami’s place. The universe seemed determined.

He greeted me with a hug and said, “You look tired.”

OMG. Not this again.

I wanted to tell him that people my age just look tired. Instead, I set him straight, letting him know that “you look tired” is just a polite way of saying “you look old.” Either way, nobody past forty wants to hear it.

He apologized. We laughed.

As we walked to dinner, he asked if I had any religious upbringing. I told him I was raised Catholic but wasn’t very good at it. When I asked him, he shook his head and said, “No, not really.”

At dinner, I ordered a glass of wine. He ordered apple juice. I thought it was an odd pairing for pizza.

I asked, “You don’t drink?”

Sheepishly, he said no. He’d promised his mother he wouldn’t drink alcohol.

I continued, “And you’ve never broken the promise?”

He shook his head. His mother had passed away from cancer, and he refuses to break the promise.

There was more to this than he was sharing.

I asked, “Are you Muslim?”

He nodded. I continued, “So, you are religious.” He smiled.

His earlier white lie made sense. Americans aren’t exactly known for their friendliness toward Muslims. And honestly, the score was even. I’d told my own white lie, saying I’d met friends in Cinque Terre because I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me for being alone.

Honesty broke our superficial ice. The energy shifted, creating space for something deeper between us. Whatever weirdness I’d been holding onto about our age gap melted. I became suddenly aware that we were holding hands.

I woke up the next morning with a smile. The sun was shining, and it felt like the right day to learn the rest of Mario’s story. I returned to Trattoria di Ubaldo for lunch, hoping to see the female server who had given us a glimpse into his world.

She wasn’t there. A male server greeted me and took my order. I felt a flicker of disappointment, but I wasn’t going to give up.

“Do you know Mario?” I asked.

“Sì,” he said. “I know Mario.”

“Why do people say he’s sad and use the phrase, ‘Be strong like Mario’?”

He perked up.

He told me he’d known Mario since he started working there when he was eighteen. He was thirty-six now. Every time Mario comes into the restaurant, he asks him, “Mario, sotto?” (are you cool?). Mario always answers, “Sì.”

He described Mario as that uncle who repeats the same stories over and over. It was part of his charm and, occasionally, his annoyance; the staff could practically recite every story word for word.

He added that Mario was a hard worker, once holding three jobs. His savings account was pretty healthy until his money manager embezzled everything. The story made the news. After that, Mario walked around with a radio, singing for tips.

I pushed for more.

Then he paused. Not long after the stolen money incident, Mario was robbed and badly beaten while hitchhiking late at night.

I looked down at my plate, suddenly unable to eat. I pictured sweet Mario, bruised and battered. We never know what it costs people to keep going.

Be strong like Mario. I finally understood. He wasn’t broken. He was still moving.

I tipped the server and went for a walk on the wall to clear my head.

Autumn had arrived. Leaves were turning. The air was invigorating, waking me up with each breath. Those walks became my reset, a quiet place where everything settled. Over half a million steps logged stood between me and the consequences of eating my way through Italy.

The calories were worth it. So many meals had been life-affirming. I kept returning to Cibo e Convivo, a small, family-run spot where the ravioli with lemon sauce and pistachio tasted exactly the way happiness should.

The pizza at Dante & Gentucca became my go-to; the salamino picante (spicy salami) was greasy, cheesy, and unapologetically perfect.

And of course, there was the deliciousness of The Chef’s creations — fresh, playful, and seasoned with possibility.

But I was starting to lose interest. Months of flirting without committing to a date will do that. After his latest food-porn video text, I messaged that it was time to commit.

He did. We made plans for Sunday.

Saturday morning, I woke up to a text with a gif, ‘Good Morning My Love.’

I hadn’t questioned anything before, but now that there was a plan, my gut began to stir. The love bombing, the stalled plans, and the desperate way he seemed to need something from me all felt suspicious.

I wrote back: Buongiorno! I just want to make sure. I usually ask before I go out with someone — are you married?

Crickets.

Five hours later, still no response.

I didn’t follow up. I let the silence do what it always does — reveal the truth.

Amore, it seemed, had just gotten messy.