Meanwhile, his buns were so shapely Praxiteles would have ached to sculpt them. Inseparable, we decided to vacation in Roma. Pilgrimages to bejeweled apses and Bernini fountains transmuted our tourism into magic. That summer on my fortieth birthday snug in Peter's arms, I was certain our affair would be as eternal as Roma herself. I had lived in the holy city for extensive periods and could show Peter its contradictions. Little did I know, while I was showing Peter round the Protestant cemetery, the burial ground of Keats and Shelley, that this trip would dig the grave of our relationship. Surprisingly, after one week Peter became fidgety. "The food stinks of garlic, the waiters cheat, the traffic's death dealing," he complained.

I attributed his surliness to his finicky English habits. Our pension's shower seldom worked and, when it did, others used up the water. This contretemps no doubt contributed to Peter's caddish behavior. One afternoon, returning from a flea market in the Trastevre section, my golden haired Eros exploded: "Why were you eyeing that greasy gigolo who sold You the cameo?" he demanded, sweat making his golden curls spaghetti.

Peter's accusations plummeted from the crude to the untrue. I wondered if he had seen too many Fellini movies? His accusations were building a case against me, a ploy to ruin our relationship. One remark startled me into scrutinizing my self image. "I've never seen a woman of your age flirt so outrageously," he sniped."My age," I gagged, tempted to toss him into the Tiber.

Goethe's observation that "old age takes hold of us by surprise" was an understatement in my case. That my lover perceived me as older than himself and, worse yet, lumped me with a species called "older women" whom he patronized, floored me. I resisted getting rid of him the way Romulus did Remus. Instead, we split our lire, paid our hotel bill and separated. I moved to a room near the Piazza di Spagna, hoping other tourists would distract me.

The idea of myself as an "older woman" made me slouch, even contemplate trading in my high heels for oxfords. Pathetically, my gaze fastened on male Italian pedestrians. I wanted someone to pinch me, or had my sex appeal withered away? I spent hours in the American Library reading about hopeless love affairs trying to find consolation.

One Wednesday afternoon, while the Romans were eating and drinking with their usual gusto, I picked up Ovid's Tristia which contained a passage meant to wound Perilla, his mistress. Lo and behold, the Latin poet was playing Peter's game, conjuring the bogeyman of the aging process to make her tremble.

The years will wear away those charming features. This forehead, time withered, will be crossed with wrinkles, this beauty will become the prey of pitiless old age, which is creeping up silently, step by step. They will say she was beautiful and you will be utterly wretched: you will say your mirror lies.

Que Bestia! I growled, waking up a student dozing in the next chair. Ovid's classic put down, if remote in time, made the wellsprings of Peter's savagery clear. He had attempted to find my weak spot and, knowing that I valued male attention, exploited my fears of being tossed on the junk heap. Ovid's warning may have devastated Perilla, but Peter's made me defiant. I began to ponder images of the mature woman and search among the American Library's shelves to uncover authors who presented them positively.