by Mallory Atack

There was something so romantic about Venice. Especially at night, the orange street lights and
candles at restaurant patios bathed the canals in subtle ochre for our gondola ride, giving the city
a dim glow. The gondola itself was upholstered in red velvet, with golden etchings elegantly
adorning the black lacquer exterior. It was magical, and I thought to myself that it really rivaled
Paris for the “City of Love” title; and my friends Marie and William certainly seemed to agree.

I couldn’t blame them for the way they were holding hands throughout the gondola ride,
or how they gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes during dinner, which was embarrassingly
candle-lit for a table of three. It wasn’t their fault that they were lucky enough to be in Venice,
young and deeply in love, and I knew it wasn’t my fault that I was alone, no matter how much it
stung. I typically didn’t mind, but in a city as romantic as Venice, it did start to feel like I was
disappearing into the Italian night, and I began to imagine myself plunging into the canal, and
how the gondola of their love would paddle right above my watery grave.

I was excited, however, to break out of our little trio in the pasta-making class we had
booked for that night. It was Marie’s idea; we were only in Venice for one night, and ‘how better
to spend it than learning to make pasta? Some of the cooking classes have unlimited wine!’ she
had suggested. I couldn’t say no to such a proposition, so after the gondola ride, we made our
way to the address TripAdvisor provided us. I was ready to make pasta and drink Italian wine,
and even more ready to get to know people other than my lovey-dovey best friends.

I squeezed into the corner booth seat at the large dining table next to Marie and began to
assess the other characters filing into the dining room. To the left of my compatriots was a young
couple from Austria, overly enthused and a bit too close to each other. The man had crooked
teeth, which he couldn’t get enough of showing—laughing and grinning at every word out of his
girlfriend’s red lips. I wondered if they might be engaged and searched for a glint of a ring on the
woman’s hand, but she kept both hands below the table, gently postured.

Next to them, an elderly English couple sat quietly. The wife was on her phone, pulling
down her reading glasses to get a better look at the words on her screen. Her husband was
twiddling his thumbs, glancing at his wife occasionally. He’d ask a question I couldn’t quite
make out, and she would answer in brisk one-word replies, but it didn’t faze him; he seemed
used to it.

The two on my right drew everyone’s eyes and ears; loud in both senses. They’re the only
ones whose names I remember: David and Crystal. The middle-aged American couple was
gaudy yet friendly, already refilling their wine glasses and chatting with just about everyone at
the table. David was jolly and bald, with a camouflage T-shirt beneath his sweatshirt
embroidered with the name of a plumbing company. Crystal wore a leopard-print blouse and so
many rings on her fingers that I figured that her hands must feel a constant heaviness.

I became increasingly aware that the table was full of only couples, and felt my heart fill
with dread. I double-checked the TripAdvisor booking, and no, it wasn’t supposed to be a
romantic experience, just a coincidence. Great.

“So how long have you two lovebirds been together?” David tossed his question towards
the young Austrians.

“Oh, guess,” the young man prompted, “How long do you think?”

David and Crystal conferred for a bit before guessing, “Two years?”

The Austrians giggled together. “Four months,” said the woman cheekily, “so not quite.”

“Wow!” David exclaimed, “Four months and you’re already in Venice together.”

“Ah, well, it is not so far for us,” the man explained, “Short trip from Vienna.”

“Wow, I wish we could say the same! Michigan’s not quite as convenient,” Crystal joked,
her hand on her heart. I noticed the gleaming rock on her ring finger nestled between smaller
gems, and I supposed David must make good money at the plumbing company.

The conversation was cut off by the chefs’ entering, announcing in their thick Italian
accents, “It is time for you to learn to make some pasta!”

Everyone moved into the kitchen, donning plastic aprons. It was equalizing, watching
everyone squeeze their heads into their aprons, asking their partner (or in my case, friend) to tie
it behind their backs.

As the chefs prepared the ingredients for us, David’s line of interrogation turned towards
my friends. “So, how about you two? Did you meet in school?”

Marie smiled, blushing in the way she only does when she thinks about William. “Yes,
we’re studying abroad right now. We met in our freshman year, and are coming up on our second
year together!”

“Aw, wonderful!” Crystal exclaimed. I cracked my eggs into my flour well as I observed.

I’d gotten used to third-wheeling over those past two years. They were my closest
friends, and having played a part in introducing them, I felt decidedly touched every time I was
reminded how much they loved each other. But it wasn’t easy; their love for each other was
understandably stronger than their platonic love for me, and I did tend to fade into the
background, especially throughout our 12 hours in Venice. The slew of happy couples at the
cooking class didn’t help to break me out of my solitude like I was hoping, especially with David
and Crystal steering the conversation towards the topic of romance throughout the whole night. I
couldn’t imagine myself relating to this bizarre group of people, and opted to quietly operate my
pasta machine rather than try to make myself known to them.

“You know, this is our honeymoon,” David told, his hands resting atop his wife’s as they
folded pasta dough together, “we’re traveling all around Italy. It’s the trip of a lifetime.”

“That’s so lovely,” cooed the English woman, “what do you two do for work?”

David and Crystal shared a look that was wrought with memory.

“Well, we both coach soccer,” explained David, cranking the handle of the pasta
machine.

“Is that how you met?”

“Er, yeah.” Crystal gave her husband a look that almost seemed pitiful.

They were clearly leaving information out, but nobody in the room was going to pry for
more details about their personal life, so the topic was left awkwardly hanging in the air. I found
myself strangely desperate to know more about them, quietly observing the way they helped
each other lower their pasta into boiling water, working in conjunction. It was sweet, in some
foreign way.

We moved back into the dining room with our freshly made pasta while Marie and
William told the group about the beginning of their relationship, gesturing to me when describing
their meeting, and I awkwardly smiled as the group acknowledged me for what felt like the first
time that night.

New bottles of wine were opened and passed around the table, and they were emptied
with haste. David’s jolly face became redder, and the volume got louder as the familiarity in the
room kept heightening; at least, it seemed. I didn’t find myself much involved with that
socialization, opting for carefully twirling the perfect noodle of linguini around my fork each
time I had to take a bite, meticulously keeping myself occupied. But I also couldn’t help but
listen in to what was being said; I almost felt like I was eavesdropping, even though I had a seat
at the table.

The young Austrians spoke of their meeting on a dating app and made a comment about
how useful online dating could be, which I hoped wasn’t directed at me. I would have assumed it
was, had they acknowledged me prior in the night, but since they hadn’t, I figured it was just an
offhand remark. The old English couple recounted their life story: meeting as young adults when
the electrical company he worked for fixed the blown fuse in her apartment building, and their
attempts to stay occupied in their older age, all three kids out of the house. Their marriage wasn’t
much different from my parents’, despite the ocean separating them. It made me smile.

As the wine kept flowing and our plates kept emptying, I felt myself shrinking to a pair of
eyes and ears, not contributing but absorbing every detail from these strangers. They discussed
love, marriage advice, and children, and I felt more voiceless than I ever had with just Marie and
William. The stories they were telling were fascinating, and the whole group seemed to be
getting much more friendly with each other, except for me. My silence became louder in my own
ears, and it was becoming unbearable. At this point, it wasn’t just auditory, it was visual. They
didn’t see me; at least, I didn’t make myself seen. I kept listening.

“Crystal actually didn’t know a damn thing about soccer before she met me,” David
chuckled, patting his wife on her back, “isn’t that right? Wow, and now you’re coaching just like
me.”

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for John,” Crystal reflected, seemingly lost in her own mind, “if it
wasn’t for John.”

David shrank into his seat a bit at the mention of John. A fascinating sight from such a
large sign; it grabbed my attention. “Sorry, David,” Crystal turned to quietly address her
husband, “I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

“No, no,” David shook his head, nervously letting out a chuckle. “I don’t mind talking
about him.”

He began to address the group. “John is, well, John was my son who passed away.”

The jovial mood in the room instantly dampened. I felt my heart drop. “John was a soccer
coach, and I joined alongside him. We were coaching together when I met Crystal.”

“Oh wow, David, I’m so sorry.” The old English man offered.

“It’s alright. Well, it’s not, but I’m alright. I just know he’d be glad I’m finally with
Crystal.” David held his wife’s hand. “Crystal has been in my life for over a decade, but she was
married to another man. Right when she got divorced two years ago, John told me to go for it.
But I was too scared. I didn’t end up asking her to go out with me until after John was gone, and
I just know he would be overjoyed. But I regret it every day that he couldn’t be my best man.”

David’s eyes started to well up. It was unbearable. I couldn’t remain a passive observer
for much longer, not when this middle-aged bald newlywed stranger was about to cry. Everyone
else at the table was consumed with thought; it was like they were trapped in their own minds,
thinking about the implications of love and loss. I knew none of them had the strength or the
confidence in that moment to speak up, and it was my chance. I needed to break the silence; I
needed to break my silence.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I provided my condolences, my first words to the group that
night. “And I already know you’re going to have a long and happy marriage.”

Nobody said anything at first, and I started to worry that I didn’t deserve to chime in.
Who would care what I had to say? But then I saw the American couple start to smile.

“You mean it?” asked Crystal, with her eyes beginning to tear up like her husband’s. She
looked at me like she had known me for years, like my words had a weight that I wasn’t even
aware of. I wasn’t even sure if I meant what I said; I barely knew these people. But I wanted
them to stop crying, and even more so, I wanted to be seen.

“Of course,” I confirmed, “you clearly love each other so much. It’s beautiful.”

The conversation fell back into its normal rhythm, and I was so glad. The Austrians told
some story about the woman’s dog hating the man (bad sign, I thought to myself), and the old
English couple lamented about their son dropping out of medical school. I found myself
speaking up again to tell them my brother had done the same, and that they shouldn’t be too hard
on him. They seemed grateful for my perspective, and I started to feel more confident in my
words. About an hour passed after the time TripAdvisor said the cooking class was supposed to
end when one of the chefs finally told us we had to leave. We all shook hands, a strangely formal
farewell considering the experience that had just been shared.

Shaking David’s rough hand, I felt myself strangely more connected to these middle-aged
soccer coaches than I had thought possible. I found myself trying to diffuse energy through my
palm to his, silently passing along my gratitude for sharing his grief and my best wishes for their
marriage. I couldn’t relate, but I could understand. And it seemed like that was all they needed.

“It was nice meeting you, sweetheart,” Crystal told me through a smile as I shook her
ring-covered hand, “Thank you for listening to us old folks chat it up.”

“Oh,” I replied, “That’s alright. Thanks for chatting.” I hadn’t thought they noticed me.

Marie, William, and I headed back to our hostel quietly in the Venice night. We didn’t
have a lot to say, letting the chilly humid air wash over us. The canal didn’t seem like a place to
drown anymore, as we crossed bridge after bridge. They were holding hands, and I smiled.