The Fountain

They walked hand in hand toward the famous fountain surrounded by tourists and pigeons. The heat of midday brought tiny beads of perspiration above her delicate pink lips, and she licked away the saltiness, smiling at him sideways.
“I can’t believe I just met him and already I feel like diving off a cliff,” she mused.
“Let’s stop here,” he suggested. They stopped at the west corner where the crowds seemed thinner. He reached in the pool with his left hand and scooped up the clear cool water, letting it fall through his fingers.
“I want to ask you something,” he said turning to face her. She squinted and raised a hand to block the sun. She waited. He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Don’t screw this up,” he reminded himself.
“Debbie, will you marry me?” he asked. “Dumb,” he thought. Why did I just blurt that out?”
Debbie surprised but happy, said nothing. She took a deep breath, too. She reached into the water, mimicking his gesture just moments ago. She patted her cool wet hand against her cheeks and sighed aloud.
“Peter, how romantic of you. Here at the fountain of lovers. Here in Rome. You popped the question.”
“Yes?” he replied, swallowing hard and quickly. He was so afraid of what she would say next that he closed his eyes and wished he had never opened his mouth.
“Look, we’ve only known each other for a short while. I don’t really know much about you.”
“But we’ve had a great time this past week. Haven’t you?”
She blinked and looked away, searching the crowd for a distraction. “There. There’s the solution,” she thought.
“Let’s get a gelato, Peter.”
“Sure. Anything you want.” They walked to the street vendor silently.
“Duo. Chocolat,” Peter managed.
They walked back to the fountain each engrossed in the sultry creamy dessert. With each lick of the icy treat, he regretted the question. With each luscious bite, she tried to find an answer. They stood by the fountain peering into the spray seeking an answer to a question neither was ready for.

Eva Guillot