A few hours’ sleep, a croissant, and a coffee, and Lisa was on her hotel shuttle to the departure terminal, where she would serve the plane to Rome.
Sometimes there were opportunities for sight-seeing, but today she had time only for sights from the shuttle—rue after rue of elegant boutiques, each displaying windows of avant-garde fashion for the well-heeled.
If one of these boutiques hosted a nighttime social club, like the Starlite, Lisa imagined that a line would form around the block each night. Parisian women would shed their trench coats to display elegant silhouettes, their fashion as an art form, full skirts atop stiletto heels. They would dance and sip champagne, carefree.
It was snowing in Paris today. Lisa’s shuttle dropped her off at Orly Airport and she entered the public plaza, heading through the Pan Am terminal to the boarding bridge. Flakes fluttered and melted on the airplane’s windows as it idled on the runway. Passengers filed in quickly, and the comfort of the large crowd enveloped her. The world was a big place with a lot of people, and she was only one of them.
“Bring the woman in row four a pillow!” Jane barked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Lisa brought out the pillow. She cradled it like a baby to keep it warm. Full service. But the passenger already had a pillow tucked behind her head, and the woman was nearly asleep.
“Another pillow, ma’am?” Lisa asked anyway, to fulfill orders.
The woman startled from her sleep. “Hrmph.” The woman made a throaty sound and tilted her neck.
The pointed red peaks of Jane’s lips turned upward.
Blood rushed up Lisa’s face as she turned down the aisle and dropped her upright posture.
It had been a setup.
“She has a pillow already.”
“So? You’re trying to show me up?” Jane snarled.
Lisa kept her head down; Jane’s words fell to her feet.
It was early afternoon when they landed in Rome. The smell of Jane’s breath lingered in Lisa’s nostrils. Her demands had only increased as the flight went on, especially after the copilot spent a few minutes during his break making small talk with Lisa.
Jane had watched the two of them, narrowing her kohl-rimmed eyes at Lisa, then pulled her aside afterward to admonish her for wasting time.
“You shouldn’t be talking to him anyway, during a flight.” Jane’s red lips were tight with apparent jealousy.
Lisa had to bite her tongue to stifle a little giggle. Jane couldn’t stand that the handsome copilot usually preferred to talk to Lisa, of all people.
When it was finally time for the passengers to leave the plane, Lisa’s chest flooded with a surge of relief. Once they disembarked, she shuttled through the airport quickly. A feeling of forward thrust surged in her veins, a sensation that she was in unstoppable motion. The other crew members were dispersing to their hotel on the outskirts of Rome, but she wasn’t ready.
On impulse, she hopped in a cab, which was more cramped than an American taxi, with a tiny back seat. She asked the driver to take her to the tourist district; he rattled off questions she couldn’t understand, except for the word Pantheon.
“Sí,” she responded.
He sped away from the curb, tires squealing as she searched for a seat belt. They wove in and out of traffic, and the motor gunned on and off. Lisa made the sign of the cross, and they motored faster and faster, through scrubby brushlands. Soon enough, the streets grew close together—crowded. Edifices of antiquity rose from the sidewalks, light-brown buildings that had stood through countless births, deaths, battles, and reconciliations.
A tear dropped from Lisa’s eye as she drew a breath. The taxi pulled into a gorgeous, stone-laid plaza, and she beheld the gargantuan stone columns of the Pantheon. She entered the building behind a few British tourists who chatted in reassuring words of English.
Inside the great rotunda, a perfect window brought forth the pale-gray sky. All colors blended in harmony, as though Nature had coordinated its hues with the timeless structure. Next to her was a small statue of a saint; Lisa squinted at the Italian words, and her ears flooded with a quick stream of Latin. A chant echoed through the chamber. She turned on her heel to see a small wedding party. A pale bride in a simple white shift stood next to her nervous groom. He tapped his foot as a priest raised his arms.
Lisa turned away.
She had her own bridal shoes—flawless white satin heels. She had skipped some meals on the week she purchased them in order to pay for them. She had often stood in the window of the bridal store, torn between two gossamer veils.
Billy had never popped the question, but it had felt like only a matter of time. They were always seeing each other and had seemed fated to be together.
Back in Lisa’s little Brooklyn room, the white shoes remained in their box, hidden under her twin-sized bed, beneath clumps of dust and a broken music box. In the Pantheon now: the first kiss of man and wife. The bride was radiant, with an ethereal glow.
Lisa hid her face. She bent down to gaze at a centuries-old figurine as tears smarted in her eyes. Even amid the beauty of Rome, she couldn’t escape the fact that he didn’t care.