Page 118 of The Pairing

“Then. ..” I say. “Winner takes all?”

It takes a beat for Theo to catch on, and then they’re pink with indignance.

“What, after I smoked you in almost every city? No way. If it’s just you, you can count him for double, because. You know.”

“It’s Fabrizio.”

Theo nods, biting their lip. “It’s Fabrizio. But if it’s both of us, Monaco rules. It cancels out. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Theo says. “Just pick one.”

“It is, actually.” I scan the illuminated rows of different-colored boxes through the glass. “I don’t know what half of these words mean.”

“We don’t have time for this!”

“Thenhelp me,Theo,” I say, feeling more than a little lightheaded. “You’re the one who actually knows some Italian.”

“Yeah, weirdly, my job at a restaurant did not teach me the word for condoms.”

We’re in an alley a few blocks from Fabrizio’s apartment, bathed in the glow of a Durex vending machine. Our hotel is on the other side of Centro Storico, and there’s no time to run there for our own provisions. Instead, I’m squinting at boxes that say things likePERFORMAandPLEASUREMAXand, mysteriously,JEANS, trying to decipher which will bring the lowest element of surprise to group sex with the person I love and our sexy tour guide. We’re already ten minutes later than we said we would be, and the German tourists behind us are getting impatient.

“I’m pretty confident the condoms are the ones that sayPROFILATTICI,” Theo says.

“Yes, like prophylactics, I guessed that, but the rest of the words? Which ones are the normal ones, without any flavors or tingling or anything? And which one is lube, Theo?Which one is lube?”

“The ones at the bottom!”

They point to the last row of the machine, which is filled with brightly colored plastic tubes of liquid with pictures of fruits on them. They’re all markedLUBRIFICANTE.

“The ones that look like the sour squeeze candy we used to get from 7-Eleven when we were ten? I’m not using that.”

Theo squats down to examine it.

“I don’t think this vending machine sells artisanal fair-tradelube for delicate Parisian buttholes, Kit.”

“How do you know it’ll be forme?”

They look up at me with a perfectly flat, knowing expression and change the subject.

“Don’t you think Fabrizio has condoms at his place?”

“We can’t show up empty-handed, that’s inconsiderate,” I say. “And what if he doesn’t? Who knows the last time he was home.”

“Okay, okay.” They take out their phone. “That box says ‘Settebello Classico,’ which means. ..” Typing, typing. “‘Seven beauties classic’? What?”

“Just—get the natural lube.” I sigh. “The one with the leaves on the tube.”

“What if that means it’s pesto flavored or something?”

“I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say as Theo punches the buttons.

We determine that the Jeans condoms are so named because they’re designed to fit discreetly in a pocket, so I buy a box and shove two in my shirt pocket, passing the remaining four off to the Germans for their patience. Then we continue along the route Fabrizio described to Theo, through the edge of the Spanish Quarter and uphill into a neighborhood whose buildings resemble the colorful stacked palazzos of Cinque Terre. Fabrizio lives close to Castel Sant’Elmo, on the third floor of a skinny, pink-red villa with yellow shutters and white iron balconies.

“So,” Theo says, hand hovering over the buzzer. “We’re doing this?”

Something wrinkles their face—not hesitation, but gentle concern, maybe. A possible out if I need it, and I’m afraid to lend weight to whatever is making them worry I might.

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