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that within a few weeks we wouldn’t be allowed to speak anything but Italian in class. Since all I knew were a few swear words, I needed to learn fast. Then, she told us to pair up for an exercise.
    “Do you have a partner?” Andrew asked.
    I was caught off-guard. My head had been pointed the other direction, surveying my limited options. I tried to disguise my guilt when I met his eye.
    “I’d love to,” I said
                  “No better option?” he asked.
                  “I didn’t think you’d want to be my partner after the other night.”
                  “You’re forgiven.” He smiled, and we proceeded to be partners for the rest of class, asking each other clumsy questions in Italian. I learned that Andrew’s name is Andrew, he’s from Le Seuer, and he has a sister named Ana.
                  Class ended with an assignment, or so I thought. No way to be sure as she gave instructions in Italian. The class trooped upstairs and headed next door to the espresso café. Like a flock of sheep, we were afraid to separate and brave the metro alone. I grabbed a table and gestured for Andrew and Maggie to join me. Another girl from class already sat there.
    Her face wore a sour expression, face outlined with blond ringlets. It looked as if she’d tried to tame them, resulting in a slicked back afro, complete with a curly nub at the nape of her neck. She wore jeggings, a bonus point in my book – fancy leggings are the offspring of fancy sweatpants.
                  “Anyone sitting here?” I asked, plopping myself down.
                  “Nah, go ahead,” she said. Andrew and Maggie sat.
                  “You’re in class, right? What’s your name?” I asked. She looked like she could use a friend, and some happy pills.
    “I’m Megan.” I waited for her to expand, it never came. I was stuck at a table with mutes.
    Andrew caught the uncomfortable silence and contributed to the conversation. We chatted aimlessly about class, Italy, the differences we’d already begun to notice between Milan and our hometowns.
                  “What do they feed the men here?” I wondered. I held up my pinky, the Italian symbol for thin. “I feel uncomfortable in a society where I’m taller and heavier than most of the men.”
                  “The bigger problem is the old ladies,” Andrew said. “Four feet tall, and when it rains they hide under their umbrellas, oblivious to the fact the spokes are located conveniently at eye height.”
    Andrew took a breath. “ I had to dodge about fifty umbrella wielding seniors this morning.”
    W e lapsed into silence with no apparent solution to Andrew’s dilemma.
                  “Do you like jokes?” I asked Andrew, at a loss for conversation. He looked surprised.
                  “Sure, hit me,” he said.
                  “What’s the difference between a black man and a medium pizza?” I asked. I tried to hide my snicker behind my made-in-heaven cappuccino.
    “Are you laughi ng?” he asked.
    “I think it’s funny,” I said. “Guess.”
    No matter how many times I tell my jokes, I still think I’m funny.
                  “I don’t appreciate racist jokes,” Andrew deadpanned.
                  “Come on, guess,” I wheedled, assuming he was kidding.
                  “Seriously, I don’t think they’re funny.” He glanced at me with an odd expression. I looked down at my shot glass before meeting his eyes. He was serious.
    I gathered up my things, bid my goodbyes, and told Megan it was nice to meet her. I smacked my hand to my head, stepping into the cool, outdoor temperature. I felt a gaze studying my back, and turned to discover Andrew’s eyes following my movements. I tried to cover up the hand-smack by running my fingers through my hair.
    Turns out, my locks were