So fast the two weeks flew by, and then last night the Italian boarder kissed me goodbye, once, then twice, on the cheek. That first week he arrived, I reckoned he must have thought me some kind of barefoot contessa, what with someone always popping ’round for a bite, what with the impromptu dinners. I’d open up the Stephanie Alexander and he’d say, knowingly, “Ah.” “Ah,” he’d say, “the bible.” One night, that night there was the roast chicken, he said, “The bible,” and Marc bent gracefully, at the waist, to kiss the book. That first week, there was limoncello in pink espresso cups at the end of every meal. He knew some random words in English, Claudio did, and he would say, “A dash more?” tipping the limoncello bottle forth in a suggestive manner. “Just a dash?” he’d say, and we laughed, both of us, because what a word to know.

One morning, the morning of the berry picking, he said: “Cranberry.” “Mm?” I said, and was surprised, because what a word to know. “Small,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “Round,” he said. “Yes!” I said. “Blue,” he said. “No.”

“Can I learn English from you?” he asked Marc one night, and there were cheese and Luxury Crackers on the table. “Hey!” I said, indignantly, “What is this?!” and Marc said, “Yes, do not learn English from this girl.” “I have taught him plenty of useful things,” I said, “for example, ‘Go crazy’.” “Go crazy!” Claudio said, and gestured, with an open arm, towards the prosciutto.

Amidst the jolly dinners and coffees on the sidewalk, I thought I should tell him it wasn’t always like this, but then so fast that first week went by, and then my outdoors schedule kicked in, and then we barely saw each other. There were brief hello’s in the night before we retired to our rooms. It was probably for the best. One evening, late, he told me: “Last night I went to Liverpool. I met my friends, we ate the Indian. This morning” – and here he patted his stomach – “I was not a flower.”

Early on, his days were free, and he’d walk the city before coming back to the flat, spent. He sent me texts offering to run my errands. “If you want I do something to you,” he wrote, “have only to ask me.” Then he got a job – “Hurray!” we cheered, and raised our arms in the air with celebration – and will be serving and recommending wines soon in Kensington. “Medium red,” he said, the other night. “Nice body. Forest fruits. Finish of – ” and here he contemplated, “pepper.” I swirled the Tesco wine in my glass. “Bullshit!” he said, triumphant, and swigged a mouthful.

His last night here, he cooked me a carbonara. I stood and watched while he touched every cupboard handle, every drawer pull, with raw-bacon hands. Me and my neuroses both, we gritted our teeth.

Tonight he is gone, released into the grey city, but there is limoncello still in the fridge.