* * *

un·re·al·i·ty ("&n-rE-'a-l&-tE) noun : the quality or state of being unreal

* * *

Of all the places you've traveled to in the world, Rome has always been your favorite.

It was once the seat of immense power and prestige for an unforgettable culture of ancient history. To this day, the pulse of emperorship still lingers in the fortuitous monuments that continue to stand in remembrance of fallen, forgotten monarchs. Twisting through the crooked alleys, filtering under the dark flagstone in each plaza, and even wedging into sanctity of various houses of God, this undeniable allure of the ultimate mastery that-once-was still brings you delectation. It runs through your veins, you suppose. You certainly have to hand it to the Romans -- they knew just how to run things in their prime. Crushing loyalty to the sovereign: Now there is something you should have pressed upon more during your own time in the sun.

And just between you and the nearest street-lamp, Italian ice is an aphrodisiac.

So alongside one of those narrow roadways, quaint and clean, you sit at a humble outdoor eatery. The bistro lives up to its unpretentious name, to an extent only fancy enough to keep customers recurrent: Striped pavilions, off-white chairs and tables, and even laminated menus in various light shades are favorable to the eye. The atmosphere is friendly, inviting to both domestic and foreign parties, and reeks of a hometown familiarity. You even expect that the owner himself knows your name by heart. As a regular here, from salads to cordials, you'll never escape the insufferable smiles of pleasant employees and other patrons.

There are no greens or liqueurs for you today. You order only a glass of water -- "with a twist of lemon, per favore" -- from a sunny waitress, studiously clutching at her notepad and pencil. It is only with moderate exasperation that you realize she has been your server almost everyday this past week. She must have taken a liking to you. Your assumption is cemented when she winks at you after depositing your desired drink next to your propped elbows.

"Anything else?" she asks you, lifted slightly on toes wedged into pointed shoes.

You avert your pale eyes and your hands steeple in front of your lips. "No, grazie."

The sweating glass draws your attention while the nameless admirer retreats to giggle among coworkers. It is by no means sweltering in spite of the early afternoon's cloudless sky; however, the sun remains in full view, rich flax associated with the summer's imported wheat. You move your hand to calmly take a fedora from your head, the cashmere soft under your fingers, and a breeze combs through your hair. Heat never unsettles you. Endings and beginnings are found in deserts.

But why reminisce?

The hat is placed a little ways before you, the tan fabric flush against the much lighter surface of the table. In one fluid motion, you withdraw the hand to limply grasp the slick glass with an artful middle, pointer, and thumb and lift it to your awaiting mouth. The other once inactive set of digits digs lazily through the breast pocket of your dinner jacket.

Trea and Maurizio Landini brand-name apparel unerringly brings curious attention from both locals and tourists -- those who are, for the most part, sporting only cool shorts and halter-tops. A knack for standing out; a touch of sophistication . . . no wonder such a trail of bleeding, fractured hearts follows in your wake. The one gabbing behind the counter about your flawless features will find her aorta severed -- not literally! what an appalling assumption! -- before too long. You set the water down.

The satin interior of the pocket yields only a few items; all of which you press against the table. You smooth out the cream-colored stationary with exact care, as any imperfection of the paper will sorely irritate you. The flimsy envelope, not yet required, remains blank and immobile.

Baring your teeth with appropriate thoughtfulness, you tap the sharp tip of your designer, gold-encrusted fountain pen hollowly against a set of four ivory incisors. Inspiration is always a difficult ass to yoke with ingenuity. Precious, but as fleeting as a fool with a lump of silver burning in his purse, it is the only variable of this excursion you have had mild worries about.

A pair of rock doves, blue-gray feathers flashing warningly at each other, squabble over a crust of bread considerately dropped by a passing aged woman, her proud southern Italian heritage evident in dark skin and dark hair. You have dark hair too, but you are surely a stranger no matter how many years you've lived here. The pigeons stay their argument, coos angry and low, and you're reminded of indignant brothers. What irony, you think. The writing point drags, right now inkless, over a slim canine.

Notable afflatus isn't too forthcoming. You frown; tiers close over the pen's apex as they slip downward. You want something elegant and simple to assault the paper, perhaps poetic or reasonably prose-like. Maybe your lack of ideas is an indirect prompt from the subconscious that a different method need be taken. Short and sweet? Punctual and powerful? Something written in several paragraphs could be summed down into one complete, painstaking sentence, yes . . .

You smile.

The calligraphy gracing the manila page is static and seasoned. The ink is a surprising deep maroon that looks like the color of jet when tilted at the proper angle; it meshes well with the fibrous paper that's being written upon. Just after a final loop is added and period dabbed at, you carefully survey your penmanship. The scrutiny passes, and once the words are dry, you fold the letter into thirds to fit it into that matching envelope. The triangular piece that inevitably seals the entire thing shut has a shiny band of unsticky paste running along its underside. Bemused, you pick the whole package up and raise it to your face.

A treat of cockroaches and other drawer-dwelling vermin certainly has no appeal to you. The aftertaste is sour and acid; yet cool enough as you run the tip of your tongue down the bent ribbon of formerly dry adhesive. Even as your eyes slip shut, the last peek at your audience reveals just that: They are staring at you, you and your pretty face, enthralled and blushing over the sensuality you must be expressing in this one simple action. To guess you're writing a love letter would explain just how involved you are in personalizing this with your minty saliva. Not at all ashamed, you draw away and fold the lip; glue bonds with paper.

You sneak a glance at your waitress, now staring confusedly at her unrequited sweetheart. She looks hurt and crestfallen.

Good.

The receiver's name and address are written next, although you care not to supply your own. (Anonymity is crucial.) The directive glistens wetly. Sitting back, you cross your arms and watch the crowd as it passes. You'll send the letter once you purchase a stamp -- this one with a sticker-like back -- at the post office. For now, it just gawps at you in naked anticipation, the cognomen burning into you even as you look away:

To: Ichijouji Ken.