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.