When I had returned from traveling, my flat was rented to tenants so I had to wait for their contract to end before I could move back in.
In the meantime, I was renting a room in a house, where I met the Italian who was visiting someone, that belonged to a friend. After a series of ‘you can’t do that’ and ‘you can’t do this’ arguments with the “managers” of the house, I decided to leave.
I moved into a shirt let studio flat about three months after starting my thing with the Italian and finally, adored what was going to be my own space. Wrong.
Obviously having our freedom at last was a great thing fit me and the Italian but after about a week, I realised that he hadn’t been home. Piles of his clothes had started to congregate in corners and he had accumulated more toiletries in the bathroom than me! I started to get cold feet.
Only a few months previous I had been downing cocktails in posh Sydney bars, kayaking in Laos and eating BBQ’d crickets in Cambodia. Now, here I was cohabiting with an Italian man, living in a bedsit and thinking ‘wooah, this isn’t what I signed up for!”.
The Italian did all the right things; called when he said would, always turned up on time, cooked me amazing dinners. It just wasn’t working for me.
I tried to approach the subject but I took the cowards way out and just started either being nasty to him or just ignoring him altogether. That’s what guys do, right? Turn on the Marty do that you get annoyed and end up calling it off.
One day, I woke up to the Italians main laying on the pillow next to me and everything started to close in. Breathe, breathe I told myself. Take one deep breathe, get up, get washed and leave.
I went to work that day with the decision made: OVER. It was over.
- The Italian: Meeting the Family (teaandbiscotti.com)
- First Impressions Don’t Count (teaandbiscotti.com)