Thursday, September 11, 2014

We made it out to the other side

We spend a few restful days in Milan, traces of clean Mediterranean air still infused in my lungs from the last deep breaths I took before we left. He uses a wide range of creative pseudonyms and refuses to stay more than one night in the same hotel, shopping for new clothes and accessories at H&M (this is what really frightens me).

He remembers my birthday through the temporary madness, we share a bottle of Vermentino di Sardegna at a quiet restaurant and he almost seems relaxed, the tensions in his body dissolve and the night skies are filled with silvery little stars. We walk arm in arm through the fashion quarter and Via della Spiga, he stops by the Cavalli store and talks passionately about his favorite leather jacket back in New York.

Later he fucks me slowly in a morning mist in the Montanelli gardens. "Your pussy tastes like summer rain" he says and I know he's been listening to too much Lana Del Rey but it's alright 'cause he says it like it's the only thing in the world that really matters.

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Saturday, September 6, 2014

Don't lose your nerve

I've had an hour to calm myself down now, posting this from my phone in a queen-sized hotel bed somewhere in northern Italy. Henry is anxiously looking out the window and in to the parking lot, the yellowish glow from the scattered streetlights makes his skin look a lot like paper.  

The events of this morning seem like an overture, the treacherously vibrating calm at the outskirts of a storm that's building its momentum. Daisy has left her passport out on the kitchen table, I open it and there's her picture next to a name she's never used. Two hours later he comes crashing in like the fall, "we have to go" he says but in to thin air as if he can't see me standing there frozen in the middle of the room.

We drive for hours, all he says to me is to stop texting. "They can track us, maybe, I don't know". A single image is stuck in my mind: that of Elisa dressed in flowingly snow-white chiffon, her hand stretched out as if to catch me and I touch her naked arm with my fingertips before he pushes me in to the car and drives away without ever looking back.   

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Saturday, August 30, 2014

This is the end

I take my morning coffee with an extra shot of Bourbon, browsing through the pictures he sends me from Berlin: Potsdamer Platz after dark, a granite wall in the Tiergarten, the roof inside the Galeries Lafayette. Always architectural and sterile, void of people or movement.

When I leave the house I dress in florals and shades of white, his absence is echoing along the fragile coastline where I walk. I pass by people that nod as if they knew me, men with wives and girlfriends stare frightenedly through the transparency of my dress as if in to an eclipse. It's almost too easy.

Back home I close the blinds and shut the door behind me, our bed is cooler than normal and under the covers my fingers are finding their way to wherever he likes to touch me. I close my eyes and it's darker than a dream, nothing breaks the silence but the subtle sensation of skin against fabric and ripples of thundering water in the far away distance.

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Monday, August 25, 2014

Take my breath away

After a stormy weekend he left like he said he would, with Tom and an empty suitcase. I share a cigarette with Daisy down by the water, then another one and a bottle of wine and it tastes just like sawdust. "Why are you with him" I ask, her cheekbones glimmering in the pallid moonlight. She shrugs, a crooked smile on her Beaujolais lips and salt in her hair like diamonds.

"And you" she asks, "why are you with Henry?"
"To forget about someone else."
"Is it working?"

A night and a day earlier he's standing over me by the bedside, bowed down and breathing carefully to keep from waking me but I haven't slept for hours. His hand hovers just over my hair, he hesitates for three seconds before stepping back and in one seamless movement he walks out and closes the door behind him. I shiver in the 6 AM cold, outside the sound of an engine and tires on gravel, then asphalt, further and further away until it's gone.

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Wednesday, August 20, 2014

As tears go by

Two weeks remain of August and the summer, waking up next to him I'm so sure I smell fire that it can't just be a dream but it is. I reach for his hands in the smoldering daylight, his slumberous fingertips drawing outline pictures on my pale bare skin. He fucks me in slow motion while I count freckles on his back like charcoal stars in an inverted night sky, for a fraction of a second I forget about the time and space between us.

"I need to go to Berlin" he says, "with Tom". I ask him why but he changes the subject, draws a little heart on my cheek and calls me darling. Outside is salt-stained winds and worried waves crashing in from the ocean, drowning out the high-pitched sound of children's laughter.

I'll always treasure the way he looks at me when he knows that everything's already been said.

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