Write

I looked out over the masses. Between me and my goal milled hundreds of the worst sort of pedestrians. Tourists. Somewhere across the piazza a girl, and her girl, waited.
This date...more than any other...I could not fuck up.
I started across the sunstruck stones, their heat searing even through my shoes. The picnic basket in my hand no longer seemed so grand an idea as I sought to twist and push through any gap that presented itself.
Didn't these fools know that I had someplace I needed to go?
Every yard of progress seemed to cost me more time than I had. Passing the fountain should have felt a triumph, but the cool spray just taunted me.
Would she wait? Was I late?
I cursed my choice to spend this summer abroad without all the trappings of the modern life and wished for a watch, a phone, anything that would reassure me I wasn't going to screw this up, too.
The shade of the cafe hid my hope from me. I wove through the tables, searching, wishing.
Please be there, Gina. I want to take you and your daughter on a picnic.