Page 72 of Theta

"For appearances, yes. In case anyone is watching. I'm the fiancé running out to get us some stuff. You're staying here to rest after our long journey."

"Care to share your plan?" she asks.

I wince. "It's loose and vague and probably stupid. And it's based on a game Cal and I used to play."

She cackles. “Ohhh boy. You're on your own with that one."

I eye her. "I plan on bringing you some clothes back, but I’ve never bought clothes for a girl before."

She just laughs. "If you manage to come back with clothes that actually fit me, I’ll be seriously impressed.” Another laugh. "This oughta be good."

I frown. "I mean clothes, woman. Not lingerie."

She laughs harder. "I know! I'm not making fun of you. It's just that we women have a hard enough time finding clothes that fit us right, and it's our clothing." She pats my chest and kisses me softly, quickly, chastely. "Just do your best. I'd tell you my sizes, but I only know what I am in the US. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I am in European sizes."

I head down and give the clerk the clipboard; the chaotic herd of twenty-somethings has gone, but a pack of older middle-aged British tourists is bickering in the foyer now, so it’s not that much less chaotic.

First, I take a circuit of the immediate block, so I know how to get back to this spot, and then I start wandering further and further afield, my eyes peeled for a few specific things.

I pass a touristy-looking shop and pop in, but it's too touristy—the products are all cheap and gimmicky, and the clothes are all either way too big or way too small. I also have limited funds, so I can’t exactly walk into a fancy place and buy expensive shit off the rack.

I waste way too much time, but eventually I do find a clothing store that seems to be what I'm looking for—decent quality, not tourist crap, and not super expensive. I get a plain black tee, a zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans for me—with a lot of help from the grandmotherly woman behind the counter when it comes to fit. Shopping for Story, however, is a whole different ballgame. Not only have I never even tried to buy clothes for a woman before, but I’m also doing it in a different country where I don’t speak the language and the sizes are all different, as Story pointed out—so even if I knew what size Story wore, it would require, at minimum, conversions.

All I can do is hold up an article of clothing, eyeball it, and hope for the best. Good fucking luck to me. I should have just brought her with me, but I'm worried my idea is stupid, and if it goes like I’m worried it’s going to, I don’t want her around to witness my embarrassment.

I go through several pairs of jeans before I find a pair that seems, to my eyes, to be pretty close. The tee and hoodie are easier to guess at, but I don't have a lot of hope that the jeans are gonna fit.

Clothing sorted out, I head out again in search of the next phase of my plan. This is a pretty small place so there's no guarantee it's going to work. In fact, I’m relatively certain it won't.

But it's worth a shot.

It involves trolling alleys and rougher sections, and a lot of people watching near the water. I find a cafe with a good view of a busy, crowded street clogged with tourists doing their shopping and sightseeing before the overnight ferry to the mainland leaves. I sip sparkling water and watch the crowds for a good hour before I spot what I'm looking for, and even then, it feels too good to be true.

So I watch some more, until I'm certain of what I'm seeing.

Here we go.

I peel a few twenties off the stack and keep them cupped in my palm, leave the cafe, and follow the individual I’ve been watching. He's a younger guy, tall and thin with a long black ponytail and a struggling beard. He's leaning casually on the trunk of a low-slung two-door sports sedan with tinted windows, custom exhaust, a big spoiler, and shiny chrome rims. The advertisement, clearly, is the same the world over.

He's smoking a cigarette and browsing his phone as I approach; he sees me and flicks the butt away in a scattering of orange sparks. "Ehi, ti serve qualcosa?" he mutters at me.

"English?" I respond.

He gives a very Italian shrug. "Eh. A little." He gives a look around. “You are looking for…something?" The pause is intentional and significant—indicating that I’m on the right track, at least.

This is stupid. So very stupid. But here I go, idiot that I am.

"Uh, yeah. But not, um…drugs."

He laughs. "Then why you come to me?"

"Because if you can find drugs, you can find other stuff."

This has his attention. He digs in his hip pocket and shows me a glimpse of a little baggie of cannabis. "You want this? Okay. What else you want? Maybe not, okay?"

"I need to get to Rome. Fast."

He snorts again, fishes a soft pack of cigarettes from a back pocket, and lights a smoke with a click of a Zippo. “Is a ferry, okay?" He points. “Just there. It goes at…" he checks an expensive watch. "Undici." He flashes five fingers at me, then five again, and then one. "Bad English, sorry."