"Are you sure about this Romano?"

"Absolutely not. Now jump!"

"Is my arm supposed to bend this way?"

"Um...probably not."

"Oh. Am I supposed to be crying?"

"Probably."

"Do you see spots?"

"Um...I'll go get uncle Carlo..."

- Age 4

It was like a tornado in a cup—that was the only reason she could think of. She'd been stirring the coffee for about an eternity and a half, no breaks, and that was the only plausible reason she could think of to find it so fascinating.

In the mindless way, you understand.

So she sat there in a blue soft sweater, her short hair tickling her chin, and watched the coffee swirl in her cup.

Round and round it went, and she could almost imagine drowning someone in it—though there were precious few people she would like to drown. Incidentally, one of them was sitting three seats diagonal to the cash register, his back to her, but that was neither here nor there.

Quite firmly, it must be said.

No, Rosina had absolutely, one hundred percent decided that she was not going to hold onto this bitterness. It dampened her mood, frightened her hysterics-prone mother, and gave her father unnecessary headaches. As far as she was concerned, Silvio could chuck his fancy motorcycle in the Tevere, suffer from unsightly moles and have his hairy legs waxed by Estella at three o'clock in the morning. It was, as the saying went, no sweat off her back.

So the coffee swirled in her little china cup.

Rosina was what one might call wealthy.

Her soft sweater and plain brown skirt may tell you otherwise, especially with those clunky boots she insisted on wearing, but she was actually very wealthy. Her parents insisted on her admitting to this fact every once in a while, and nine times out of ten, Rosina would happily comply.

It was the one time out of ten that led her mother to want to ship her off to a prestigious high school somewhere in Asia, the one time out of ten that kept her darling father awake at night, the one time out of ten that had led her to accept Silvio's hand as he led her on an adventure through the alleys of Rome.

Because Rosina was wealthy, and she was happy with her wealth, and she wouldn't give up her life for the world, but there are some things money cannot buy.

For instance, the feeling of being drenched by the neighbour's sprinklers as you chased a stray football, or the sense of accomplishment as you handle yet another midnight raid of your friend's kitchen while her parents are asleep without getting caught.

It was the little things that reminded Rosina that being wealthy was a privilege, and that happiness didn't always mean having more, but rather, making do with less.

But here Rosina was, terrifying her mother with her disheartened sighs, causing yet another headache for her father as she moped, and making the servants flinch as she walked past them with a cloud of gloom hanging over her head.

"Dear, maybe you should talk to her."

Rosina sighed and took a sip of her morning tea. Her father shuffled the newspaper in an absentminded attempt to hide from his wife's anxious glance.

"Darling, you're her mother."

Rosina glumly took a bite out of her cookie. Some crumbs fell onto her lap, and that began the end.

"Rosina," her mother began, scandalised. "You can't let the cookie crumble! You must stay strong! You mustn't let this Silvio get to you! You must go to Tokyo!"

Rosina brushed the crumbs off her lap and took another bite, just as glumly as before.

"Dear!" her mother exclaimed, her voice teetering on the border of hysterics. "Your daughter is being difficult!"

Her father took a moment to decipher the tiny writing in the comics section, before giving it up as a bad job and refocussing his attentions to the crossword.

"Yes darling. Rosina, listen to your mother."

Rosina dumped the remainder of her cookie into her tea and watched it sink with a mindless fascination.

Her mother wrung her hands together in nervousness.

"Rosina," her mother nearly cried. "I will immediately get Carlo to book you the first flight to Tokyo! The Romano family sent their son—you remember Giovanni, don't you Rosina? Dreadful troublemaker, always writing that frightful poetry of his, scared me half to death—to this wonderful school, and now he's a proper businessman, isn't that right dear?"

Her father gave up the crossword for a lost cause and took a peak at the horoscopes.

"Of course darling."

Her mother turned back to Rosina, making plans without a single deterrent. "The change of pace will do you good Rosina, I know it will, and that Silvio will be out of your mind in no time, sì? Of course! Oh, I must make arrangements! Your father and I have some odds and ends to take care of, but the sooner you leave Rome behind, the better! I will arrange everything with Carlo, yes Rosina?"

Rosina was far too busy excavating her mushy cookie from the teacup to find the energy to reply. Her mother seemed not to have noticed that no one was paying attention to her, however, and simply continued without missing a step.

"I will send Lia with you—yes, it will all work out, and you might find inspiration for your artwork as well!"

Rosina fleetingly thought of reminding her mother that she hadn't picked up so much as a crayon in the last fourteen years, much less a passion for artwork, but she was having too much fun sulking to do so.

Her mother was all bright eyes and excited fluttering by the time Rosina had finished her lukewarm tea and her father had moved onto a magazine.

"—right dear?"

He put the magazine down just then, looked around the room once as if to reassure himself that everything was in order, before turning his sharp green eyes to Rosina.

"Your mother is under the impression you are fluent in Japanese, honey. Are you going to disabuse her of such notions or should I?"

Her mother gaped at her husband. "Dear! Surely they are civilised!"

Rosina poured herself another cup of tea. She picked up another biscuit and contemplated it thoughtfully.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean darling." Her father rubbed his temples in the classic post-morning-tea-headache indication.

Her mother touched her perfectly neat brunette bun, as if to reassure herself that it was still in place. "Why, all civilised people speak Italian, surely!"

Her father looked at his wife with something akin to condescension. "Darling, they are Japanese. They will, therefore, primarily converse in Japanese."

Her mother gaped, as though this was a shocking revelation, and not simple common sense.

Rosina decided that the whole cookie could be dunked into the tea—more dramatic that way—and she proceeded to do just that.

She then looked up, and asked, "Don't all roads lead to Rome?"

Both her mother and father exchanged despairing looks, one hysterical and one exasperated.

"Honey," her father said, his voice indicating that he was resolutely holding onto the last vestiges of his patience. "That, in no way shape or form, means that you can learn Japanese in time for the new school year. More than that, a boy should not make you run away from home, for any reason."

"Besides," her mother said, now thoroughly against her daughter leaving Rome, "that's far too—adventurous and tiresome, isn't it Rosina?"

Rosina's eyes sparkled, and she picked up another cookie, her interest sparked with the word.

Adventure.

A few crumbs fell onto her lap, and Rosina had made up her mind.

"Adventurous sounds interesting."

Her father massaged his temples and her mother whimpered.

Rosina took a sip of her soggy-cookie tea.

Tevere - the river Tiber.