where all roads lead

In the dark of the early morning, the taxi driver asked where we were going and when I said Rome, he nodded and said that it was almost like Paris. At the airport, we thronged around the gate, jostling to be the first through the door. A little apart from the crowd, leaning up against a wall, was a dark-haired man, a backpack on his shoulder and a dark-haired girl's arms around his neck. She was whispering something that must have been goodbye and she rubbed her knuckles against the streaks of tears on her cheeks.

The flight was short and when we woke up, the sky was blue and we were in Rome. There was no-one at the customs booth and we walked quickly, our steps echoing in the almost-empty airport, to the baggage carousel. As the procession of black suitcases revolved past us, I turned and saw the dark-haired man with the backback. But his backpack was on the floor and he was passionately kissing a blonde hello.