[story] questa non è una storia d'amore
Aug. 3rd, 2009 12:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: REI (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rei_kurasaki)
She's sitting in Café Florian picking at the brown sugar cubes in the pretty silver dish and scattering brown granules all over the table, getting them all over her fingers. The cubes are stacked on top of each other, a miniature tower of Babel; perhaps they will reach the ceiling, she thinks with no small amount of amusement as they grow higher and higher, melting into thick gold trimmings that drape down into carefully aged wallpaper.
Renaissance, she muses, how classic and gaudy. Oh, what would Giotto say.
She crumbles a cube between her fingers and dips them in her tea, taking one experimental lick.
A strand of bright pink falls into her tea and she flicks her hair back casually; the tea is hot, and her finger tastes like sugar bursts across her tongue – gritty and crunchy, like sand between her toes.
It's not sweet enough, she decides with barely contained annoyance and dumps 12 cubes of sugar in her tea, taking great pleasure in the way it soaks up the red liquid. The lady across is staring at her with a mildly horrified expression, her carefully manicured hands poised over her tiny cup of expresso, her tiny black bag sitting stacco beside her, and outside, the sun is finally breaking through the piazza in bright bursts of light after a rainy night.
She licks her lips once; she likes the way her lip-gloss tastes – like a bubblegum strawberry blend; and she dips her finger in her tea again, carefully lifting tiny globs of sugar up from the bottom on her cup. Outside, someone scares the pigeons and they scatter to the sky in undulating waves of grays.
She watches them disappear into the sky before she smiles to herself and finishes her tea.
She's outside, with her arms outstretched, like she's trying to reach the sun. Everyone ignores her, as if they see girls with shockingly pink hair try to catch pigeons everyday. They see, they gawk, they move on, and Venice continues to murmur at her own pace, her waters licking the streets like they always have for hundreds of years.
She runs into a flock of pigeons pecking at dirt and laughs when they fly away, a thunderous patter of beating wings. She closes her eyes and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The pigeons circle the piazza in a dark whirlwind of birds and tourists stop to ooh and aahh and take pictures with their swanky digital cameras, each trying to outdo the other.
Come back, she calls, her pale hands cupped around her mouth, will I see you tonight?
The birds sit on the red stone parapets and flap their wings in reply. Instead, the clock tower chimes once, then again. She laughs again and looks back at the pigeons. There's a faraway look in her eyes as she puts one finger (still smelling mildly of sugar) on her lips.
It must be nice to have a place to come home to, she says wistfully as the pigeons chatter to each other in their own tongues.
She winds her way through the narrow bricked streets of Venice and runs her hand along the rough walls. Closes her eyes, and lets her red shoes find their way home. She pauses once, over a small bridge, and watches her reflection as she shakes out her hair; pink settles over her shoulders and tumbles down her back. She pulls down one strap of her black tank top and exposes a white shoulder before twirling her hair into a mock bun and staring at her reflection. She smiles once before turning on her heel, and takes off running.
She loves Venice, with its closed streets, and burbling canals that wind their way through the city. She loves the smell of Venice, of the sea and of her little cafes and the way coffee is brewed and the way shopkeepers shout out to customers to come in on a windy day. Venice is like a dream, a waking dream she can't come out from; she loves Venice and doesn't want to leave.
Home is the attic of a crumbling apartment, whose green walls are faded and peeling. Ivy curls up window sills, and taps on the glass whenever the wind blows too hard. The attic is large and drafty in winter, but cool and dry in summer, and she kicks off her shoes as she runs across the wooden floors. There is a letter on her dresser and she doesn't need to see it to know what it says. An opened suitcase lies open on a spare bed and she pulls off her tank top and tosses it inside. When she switches on the radio, it crackles and hisses like an over-worked engine, before NicCo Verrienti's voice filters through the air.
She listens to him sing about a long lost love as she sits at her laptop and types a letter. Volevo solo dirti, the radio croons as she picks at dusty keys and bites her lip. She has been working on this letter for the last 3 months, 19 days; she's been through 3 continents and 5 countries, yet the letter is still not finished.
Perhaps, it will never be, she thinks, as she hums along to the chorus.
The letter starts like this:
Here, she pauses, hits the backspace key and starts all over again:
She considers writing about the men she meets, and what happens, but decides it's much too crude. She considers writing about how Venetian glass sparkles under the sun, or how the clock tower sounds when it strikes the hour. She remembers the way the sound resonates, and she remembers how people around her stop and stare, awestruck, and how time seems to slow. She considers writing about the way Italian bakers advertise their wares, and the way freshly baked cheese bread smells in the morning – perhaps she will talk about what she eats for breakfast. She thinks about the way people move in Venice, like the waters of the city, quick and viscous. She considers telling The Girl that she loves her, misses her, wants to feel her, and hear her voice, and touch her hair. She considers telling the story of how she coloured her hair bright pink in Tokyo, as the hairdresser snipped off red ends, and showed her the way to smile without showing her teeth.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she throws clothes into the open suitcase and picks up the letter on the stand. In it, is the name of a man, and the venue, written in a clean, precise hand. Marcello, she thinks fondly; she could always recognize his handwriting out of a million others.
HOTEL METEROPOLE, riva degli Schiavoni, 9pm
She arrives at the hotel 15 minutes earlier than expected and spends her time examining a painting by de Barbari, inspecting her freshly painted nails, and checking her reflection in the large gilded mirrors for the 40th time since she arrived.
She thinks of the letter as she waits, and wonders if The Girl might appreciate yet another souvenir from Italy.
He is all wide eyes, golden curls and beautiful cologne, but the set of his lips is cruel as she licks her lips and beckons him closer. She runs a hand down the corset she's wearing and touches the little pearl buttons that pick their way down the fabric. Touch me, her hands say, I was made to be touched. He runs a hand through his lovely blonde hair and drops his crocodile-skinned briefcase onto the carpeted floor. She laughs; a smattering of giggles that ripple across the room and bounces off expensive lace-trimmed lampshades.
"You were expensive. Gonna make it worth my time, sweetheart?"
He pulls off his expensive Hermes tie and throws it carelessly on the floor. She unhooks the corset, sits on the bed and spreads her legs. When he touches her, she smiles, like she's been told a very, very good secret. So good, in fact, that she spreads her legs wider and rubs herself against the bulge in his pants. She'll make it worth his time, she always does; she's a professional after all. He pushes her into the 300-threadcount sheets and lifts her ass into the air. Oh, she knows how this will go, but its okay; they all end the same way anyway.
He likes it rough, and he gives it to her the only way he knows how; she's clawing the sheets and twisting her head, as he grabs her hips and slams into her, all hot bright heat and flaring friction. There will be marks left, but she buckles and pushes back as he fists his hand around her hair and pulls her head back.
She doesn't think of The Girl during times like these.
She rides him like no girl has ever ridden him before, and he marvels at the way his hands have left marks all over her white skin and feels himself get harder. She leans down and places one chaste kiss on his cheek and the last thing he feels before the mind splintering pain is the tips of her pink hair brushing his cheek.
She pulls out the wicked looking needle out of his ear and sighs. The sheets are ruined, his ruptured ear drums spilling blood all over the expensive threads. You men never do anything right, she laughs as she stands up, not even in death. She carefully avoids touching him and wipes the steel needle off on his tailored Hermes jacket, leaving ugly red streaks on the smooth leather. The colour is ruined, she thinks, such a pity, it was a lovely shade of cream. Now, she allows herself to think of The Girl, of how she would never know about this part of the job, and how she will never tell. She thinks of The Girl, and how she looks in the morning, as she stands in the shower and when she dresses.
She picks up the phone and dials a secure number, that reroutes her to a familiar voice. Yes, mission accomplished, ma'am. No, ma'am, he didn't hurt her. Yes, ma'am, she's sure he's been permanently disabled. Yes, ma'am, she knows her next mission, her flight to Moscow leaves tomorrow morning. She hangs up gently and twists the cap off her favourite lipstick; she doesn't get to go home till mid-winter, when the garden is in hibernation, and that thought makes her bites her lip again.
The briefcase stands where he dropped it, and she picks it up, and carries it out of the room. No one will find him until tomorrow morning and by then, she'll be long gone. The door closes silently behind her as she straightens her back and tosses her pink hair back, oh these expensive hotels are so convenient. Perhaps for the Moscow mission, she will colour her hair a bright electric blue; the thought makes her smile as her footsteps are swallowed by the lush carpeted hallway.
She should finish that letter to The Girl.
the end
rei_kurasaki)She's sitting in Café Florian picking at the brown sugar cubes in the pretty silver dish and scattering brown granules all over the table, getting them all over her fingers. The cubes are stacked on top of each other, a miniature tower of Babel; perhaps they will reach the ceiling, she thinks with no small amount of amusement as they grow higher and higher, melting into thick gold trimmings that drape down into carefully aged wallpaper.
Renaissance, she muses, how classic and gaudy. Oh, what would Giotto say.
She crumbles a cube between her fingers and dips them in her tea, taking one experimental lick.
A strand of bright pink falls into her tea and she flicks her hair back casually; the tea is hot, and her finger tastes like sugar bursts across her tongue – gritty and crunchy, like sand between her toes.
It's not sweet enough, she decides with barely contained annoyance and dumps 12 cubes of sugar in her tea, taking great pleasure in the way it soaks up the red liquid. The lady across is staring at her with a mildly horrified expression, her carefully manicured hands poised over her tiny cup of expresso, her tiny black bag sitting stacco beside her, and outside, the sun is finally breaking through the piazza in bright bursts of light after a rainy night.
She licks her lips once; she likes the way her lip-gloss tastes – like a bubblegum strawberry blend; and she dips her finger in her tea again, carefully lifting tiny globs of sugar up from the bottom on her cup. Outside, someone scares the pigeons and they scatter to the sky in undulating waves of grays.
She watches them disappear into the sky before she smiles to herself and finishes her tea.
She's outside, with her arms outstretched, like she's trying to reach the sun. Everyone ignores her, as if they see girls with shockingly pink hair try to catch pigeons everyday. They see, they gawk, they move on, and Venice continues to murmur at her own pace, her waters licking the streets like they always have for hundreds of years.
She runs into a flock of pigeons pecking at dirt and laughs when they fly away, a thunderous patter of beating wings. She closes her eyes and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The pigeons circle the piazza in a dark whirlwind of birds and tourists stop to ooh and aahh and take pictures with their swanky digital cameras, each trying to outdo the other.
Come back, she calls, her pale hands cupped around her mouth, will I see you tonight?
The birds sit on the red stone parapets and flap their wings in reply. Instead, the clock tower chimes once, then again. She laughs again and looks back at the pigeons. There's a faraway look in her eyes as she puts one finger (still smelling mildly of sugar) on her lips.
It must be nice to have a place to come home to, she says wistfully as the pigeons chatter to each other in their own tongues.
She winds her way through the narrow bricked streets of Venice and runs her hand along the rough walls. Closes her eyes, and lets her red shoes find their way home. She pauses once, over a small bridge, and watches her reflection as she shakes out her hair; pink settles over her shoulders and tumbles down her back. She pulls down one strap of her black tank top and exposes a white shoulder before twirling her hair into a mock bun and staring at her reflection. She smiles once before turning on her heel, and takes off running.
She loves Venice, with its closed streets, and burbling canals that wind their way through the city. She loves the smell of Venice, of the sea and of her little cafes and the way coffee is brewed and the way shopkeepers shout out to customers to come in on a windy day. Venice is like a dream, a waking dream she can't come out from; she loves Venice and doesn't want to leave.
Home is the attic of a crumbling apartment, whose green walls are faded and peeling. Ivy curls up window sills, and taps on the glass whenever the wind blows too hard. The attic is large and drafty in winter, but cool and dry in summer, and she kicks off her shoes as she runs across the wooden floors. There is a letter on her dresser and she doesn't need to see it to know what it says. An opened suitcase lies open on a spare bed and she pulls off her tank top and tosses it inside. When she switches on the radio, it crackles and hisses like an over-worked engine, before NicCo Verrienti's voice filters through the air.
She listens to him sing about a long lost love as she sits at her laptop and types a letter. Volevo solo dirti, the radio croons as she picks at dusty keys and bites her lip. She has been working on this letter for the last 3 months, 19 days; she's been through 3 continents and 5 countries, yet the letter is still not finished.
Perhaps, it will never be, she thinks, as she hums along to the chorus.
The letter starts like this:
Dear _________,
It's beautiful in Italy today, I wish you were here.
Senor Bougerissa says the sun has finally decided to show her face.
Senor Bougerissa is a—
Here, she pauses, hits the backspace key and starts all over again:
Dear _________,
It's finally summer in Italy. And Venice is as beautiful as
I remembered it. I wish you were here with me too,
I'm sure the pigeons would have loved to talk to you.
Senor Bougerissa says it shone for me, but then again,
he calls every girl bella.
They say the weather should hold for another three months.
More than enough time for Italians to get sick of the sun, but
you know how people are. They never admit the truth that they
love and miss something.
She considers writing about the men she meets, and what happens, but decides it's much too crude. She considers writing about how Venetian glass sparkles under the sun, or how the clock tower sounds when it strikes the hour. She remembers the way the sound resonates, and she remembers how people around her stop and stare, awestruck, and how time seems to slow. She considers writing about the way Italian bakers advertise their wares, and the way freshly baked cheese bread smells in the morning – perhaps she will talk about what she eats for breakfast. She thinks about the way people move in Venice, like the waters of the city, quick and viscous. She considers telling The Girl that she loves her, misses her, wants to feel her, and hear her voice, and touch her hair. She considers telling the story of how she coloured her hair bright pink in Tokyo, as the hairdresser snipped off red ends, and showed her the way to smile without showing her teeth.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she throws clothes into the open suitcase and picks up the letter on the stand. In it, is the name of a man, and the venue, written in a clean, precise hand. Marcello, she thinks fondly; she could always recognize his handwriting out of a million others.
She arrives at the hotel 15 minutes earlier than expected and spends her time examining a painting by de Barbari, inspecting her freshly painted nails, and checking her reflection in the large gilded mirrors for the 40th time since she arrived.
She thinks of the letter as she waits, and wonders if The Girl might appreciate yet another souvenir from Italy.
He is all wide eyes, golden curls and beautiful cologne, but the set of his lips is cruel as she licks her lips and beckons him closer. She runs a hand down the corset she's wearing and touches the little pearl buttons that pick their way down the fabric. Touch me, her hands say, I was made to be touched. He runs a hand through his lovely blonde hair and drops his crocodile-skinned briefcase onto the carpeted floor. She laughs; a smattering of giggles that ripple across the room and bounces off expensive lace-trimmed lampshades.
"You were expensive. Gonna make it worth my time, sweetheart?"
He pulls off his expensive Hermes tie and throws it carelessly on the floor. She unhooks the corset, sits on the bed and spreads her legs. When he touches her, she smiles, like she's been told a very, very good secret. So good, in fact, that she spreads her legs wider and rubs herself against the bulge in his pants. She'll make it worth his time, she always does; she's a professional after all. He pushes her into the 300-threadcount sheets and lifts her ass into the air. Oh, she knows how this will go, but its okay; they all end the same way anyway.
He likes it rough, and he gives it to her the only way he knows how; she's clawing the sheets and twisting her head, as he grabs her hips and slams into her, all hot bright heat and flaring friction. There will be marks left, but she buckles and pushes back as he fists his hand around her hair and pulls her head back.
She doesn't think of The Girl during times like these.
She rides him like no girl has ever ridden him before, and he marvels at the way his hands have left marks all over her white skin and feels himself get harder. She leans down and places one chaste kiss on his cheek and the last thing he feels before the mind splintering pain is the tips of her pink hair brushing his cheek.
She pulls out the wicked looking needle out of his ear and sighs. The sheets are ruined, his ruptured ear drums spilling blood all over the expensive threads. You men never do anything right, she laughs as she stands up, not even in death. She carefully avoids touching him and wipes the steel needle off on his tailored Hermes jacket, leaving ugly red streaks on the smooth leather. The colour is ruined, she thinks, such a pity, it was a lovely shade of cream. Now, she allows herself to think of The Girl, of how she would never know about this part of the job, and how she will never tell. She thinks of The Girl, and how she looks in the morning, as she stands in the shower and when she dresses.
She picks up the phone and dials a secure number, that reroutes her to a familiar voice. Yes, mission accomplished, ma'am. No, ma'am, he didn't hurt her. Yes, ma'am, she's sure he's been permanently disabled. Yes, ma'am, she knows her next mission, her flight to Moscow leaves tomorrow morning. She hangs up gently and twists the cap off her favourite lipstick; she doesn't get to go home till mid-winter, when the garden is in hibernation, and that thought makes her bites her lip again.
The briefcase stands where he dropped it, and she picks it up, and carries it out of the room. No one will find him until tomorrow morning and by then, she'll be long gone. The door closes silently behind her as she straightens her back and tosses her pink hair back, oh these expensive hotels are so convenient. Perhaps for the Moscow mission, she will colour her hair a bright electric blue; the thought makes her smile as her footsteps are swallowed by the lush carpeted hallway.
She should finish that letter to The Girl.
the end
