Winter, 1973. I am done with college. I need to leave New York. My work is complete.
I rent a room in a farmer’s house in the mountains of Italy. I want my sociology male-friend to come visit, but he cannot disentangle himself. I want my college girlfriend to visit, but she cannot disentangle herself. I am lonely. I take the train to Venice. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times. It is February, then March. The Venetian b&b owner knows that I am lonely. He reaches for me, there in his own house, with his son and wife in the floors above. I have studied the language, I know how to say no. I push him away and go out in the drizzly Venetian March air.
I am there again, years later when I travel back to Venice with my family – two little girls and a husband. We need a room. Behind the desk, the adult son looks at me blankly. I want to say “ call your dad – he’ll remember me.” I know he will remember me. But I refrain. We find another b&b. Better. Without the layers.
23 hours ago
Short, but deep. Realistic enough. Excellent closing line.
ReplyDeleteI like this style of your writing. Especially the form of realism. Dreamy writing is overrated.
zxc
beautiful
ReplyDeleteIn fairness to S. Romanelli, I showed up at his b&b thirteen separate times that winter. I expressed interest in his old house, he showed me the rooms, we talked over morning espresso about Venice in the winter -- it was a peculiar set of circumstances. All those times, I never met the woman of the house. The son -- yes, but not the wife. Which makes me wonder now -- might there not have been a wife? No matter. I was swooning after my sociologist back in NY.
ReplyDeleteNina, I was two years old at the time. I didn't even know what sociology was.
ReplyDelete