by D. M. George
“The more time I spend with you, Perla, the emptier my house feels. And my bathroom… every time I see Mr. Bubble, I think of you.” His expression was so earnest, so hopeful. “You ruined everything, you know. I thought I was content living alone, doing what I pleased, until you nearly knocked me over in the men’s room.” He laughed. “How could such a memorable introduction not foretell a very special relationship?”
“A happy accident, but not the best first impression I’ve ever made.” Perla studied the fizz on the surface of her mimosa. If only he were addressing the woman she really was, not the younger woman she appeared to be—she’d be over the moon.
“I don’t believe in accidents.” Vito took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “I love you, Perla. Don’t go back to California. Stay with me in Praiano for the rest of the summer, and if we still like each other, spend the winter with me in Rome.”
“I love you too.” Perla pulled his hands across the table and kissed his knuckles. “But why? I’m an unemployed divorcée gambling on a career change before the money runs out—certainly you can do better.” His compliments felt undeserved, and she hated herself for swindling the fairy-tale moment.
The waiter refilled their glasses and left a basket of breadsticks.
“Not so,” Vito said, taking one and pointing it at her like a wand. “I like who I am when I’m with you. You’re so different from my former wives. They built their lives around me, but with you, well, you’re on your own quest and I’m just along for the ride. You don’t want anything from me, you’re not coy, manipulative, or judgmental. Best of all, you embrace me as a lowly tour guide, although I struggle to fully accept it myself.”
Perla doodled with the tip of her finger on the condensation clouding her champagne glass. “Your perspective is flattering, Vito,” she said, “but my life is in upheaval, and coming to Italy was more an act of desperation than courage. And here’s the problem”—she snapped her breadstick in two—“falling in love is easy. Right now we want each other rather than need each other. It’s a great way to start a relationship, but what happens when need enters the picture? Mature relationships at some point involve interdependency. How will you feel about me then?”
“There’s absolutely no problem,” Vito said. “The way I see it, we’re both trying to reinvent ourselves but for different reasons. We’ll complement and support each other along the way.”
“What do you mean?” Perla asked, her smile tight.
“You seek the financial security you lost and I have plenty of money, but it means nothing to me. I, on the other hand, seek the courage to live life more fully after years in a button-down career, but that’s already your nature. Look at you, alone in Italy, pursuing your dream, not caring what others think. I envy such courage. Stay with me, be my partner in fun, teach me wild abandon, and I will support you. Let me relieve your financial stress.”
“It’s a tempting offer, Vito, really. I’ve often wondered what kind of person I’d be if I didn’t have to wear the money pants all the time.” Perla had never admitted that to herself. Why had she just blurted it out? Financial freedom—what a concept. What a fantasy. She chastised herself for entertaining the idea.
“You’re not used to being taken care of. I can see that. But let me do this for you—for us. At this point in my life, I desire only simple pleasures. A great day is when I get to eat gelato, drink wine, be outside enjoying nature in the company of good friends, and go to sleep at night with the woman I love. Please, Perla, be that woman.”
Perla wanted to swoon and cry at the same time.
The train slowed and passengers began collecting their bags. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Vito she’d think about his invitation to stay in Italy. The discovery of Parthenope’s impending death, however, had turned the tables. Instead of planning her and Vito’s future together, she was deliberating how to end their relationship.
Did she have the strength to walk away from the man she loved truly, deeply, and without reservation? Vito would be heartbroken, they both would be, but she couldn’t let Parthenope die. On the other hand, she couldn’t, under any circumstances, let him see her without the cameo. Revealing her old self would kill their love instantly, and the shame of her deception would kill her. She winced. Images of the horrible, contorted face he would make assaulted her mind like harpies. Parthenope was right; her ill-gotten beauty was cursed.
The train made a clanging sound when it switched tracks and slowed. The brakes squealed. It rolled to a stop under the expansive roof of Rome’s Termini Station. The doors hissed open. Perla stepped down onto the platform and was swept away in the suitcase-pulling crowd streaming from the other cars. Something about trains made her feel like she was in a scene from an old black-and-white movie. The coming and going was so dramatic, and this time the handsome leading man was waiting for her. If Vito wore a fedora, he’d be waving it in the distance, shouting, Amore mio! Amore mio!
She smiled to herself; the uniquely Italian sense of otherness had returned. Once again, she was in a different world rather than a different country, in the familiar time warp where past and present intermingled and magic prowled.
“Perla!” The sound of her name pierced the din.
She spotted Vito and her heart thudded. God, she loved him. She’d stay in Italy forever if their relationship weren’t built on a lie. But she wiped those thoughts from her mind and planted her feet in the moment. Starting then and there, she would savor every second of Vito’s company without thought of the future. There was plenty of time for confrontation and sorrow later. She rushed down the platform into his embrace.
“Good evening, my darling!” Vito said, kissing her and holding her tight. “I missed you so much! This week felt like a month.” He handed her a bouquet of red roses wrapped in crinkly cellophane and a satin ribbon. How handsome he was in his white polo shirt, khaki linen shorts, and closed-toe sandals.
“I missed you too. Thanks for giving me time to finish my articles.”
“It must feel good to be done,” Vito said.
“Actually, I’m uploading them Monday.” Perla smiled sheepishly.
“Monday? I thought you already sent them. Wasn’t that the whole idea of our time apart?” Vito furrowed his eyebrows.
“It was, but I can’t shake the feeling that I overlooked an awkward sentence here or poor word choice there. I have nightmares about typos. Just one more quick review with clear eyes.”
“That’s your perfectionism talking. Let it go. Have faith in yourself.” Vito steered her out of the station to the street.
Perla shrugged. “I know, I know. How was your doctor’s visit, by the way?”
“Just a routine checkup. Everything’s fine.” His eyes darted to the left. “Parking is a nightmare in Rome; taxis are the easiest way to get around town. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dozens of taxis were lined up in an orderly fashion, and within minutes they were in the back seat of a cab. Finally Perla’s last weekend with Vito had begun.
Vito tasted of licorice as they kissed in the back seat of the taxi. The ride from the Termini Station to his apartment in the Trastevere district of Rome was short. Perla wouldn’t have minded if it was an hour away though—she was with Vito at last. An errant curl sprang loose from his lightly gelled hair. She pushed it back from his brow and let his eyes inventory her innermost desires. Something about him always made her feel naked. Her temperature climbed in spite of the blasting air conditioner.
The taxi crossed the Tiber River, turned in to a narrow, cobbled street, and stopped in front of one of the tall, old-fashioned apartment buildings standing in a row. Perla marveled at the huge wooden door, its doorknob the size of a hubcap, as Vito removed her suitcase from the trunk.
“Does a giant live here?” Perla laughed. Another one of Rome’s delightful oddities.
Vito wrenched the knob open, led her through the enclosed courtyard and up multiple flights of stairs to his penthouse apartment. H
e unlocked the door, and Perla stepped across the threshold and back in time. The flat was small and charmingly old—nothing like his spacious modern home in Praiano or her cookie-cutter house in California. The rough wooden beams in the ceiling and the exposed brick interior walls dripped with character. A homey, well-used bachelor pad. She loved it.
Vito guided her into the cubbyhole kitchen. “Let’s put your roses in some water.” He opened a cabinet under the porcelain sink, rummaged around, brought out a glass jar that had once contained olives, and filled it under the faucet.
Perla took in the dearth of appliances, the chopping-block counter, and the green enamel refrigerator. Everything was so different in Italy. Good Lord, was that a mortar and pestle? The lingering smell of home-cooked meals indicated it wasn’t just decoration.
“May I put them in the refrigerator until morning?” Perla asked. “It’s so hot they’ll wilt if I leave them on the table.”
Vito nodded, and Perla opened the small refrigerator door. Her eyes locked on two bottles of champagne cooling on the shelf and a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries. A fridge can reveal a lot about someone, and this one blabbed about the special evening Vito had in store for her.
“I’m sorry it’s so hot in here. This building was constructed before the time of air conditioners. I’m afraid this fan is the best I can do.” He switched on the small fan that sat on the kitchen table. “Let me show you around.”
They crossed the living room’s cool tile floor into the master bedroom. The votive candles scattered about piqued Perla’s curiosity. She circled the bedroom, surreptitiously looking at each one to see if it had been used. She relaxed—they hadn’t. Not that she was snooping.
“We need air.” Vito opened the double glass doors leading to his rooftop patio.
“This is beautiful!”
“Look around. I’ll get your suitcase.”
Perla stepped outside and found herself in an urban oasis. Walls on two sides and a lattice canopy lent shade and privacy. Oodles of potted plants lined the terrace. Gardening, she discovered, was yet another interest she and Vito shared. Could this man be any more perfect? She stood at the vine-covered railing and gazed out over Trastevere’s rooftops. Living here would be easy.
Vito called her name, and she returned to the bedroom. He scooped her up in a hug so big her feet lifted off the ground. “Finally I have you in my lair!”
He planted a long, wet kiss and leisurely explored her mouth with his tongue. Her heart fluttered. Every one of Vito’s kisses was as good as the first. Perla had forgotten how erotic kissing could be until she met Vito. With Gordon, kisses were polite hellos and goodbyes, good mornings and good nights. Toward the end of their marriage, they had dropped the formality entirely, even during sex. With Vito, kissing was a sex act in itself.
When Vito set her down, her sweat-soaked cotton dress stuck to her skin. “It’s much more humid in Rome than in Sorrento. I’m wilting.” Perla lifted her hair off her neck and surreptitiously sniffed under her arm. Good—her deodorant was holding. “May I use your bathroom? I need to freshen up.”
“Make yourself at home. I’ll move the fan in here.”
Unlike Vito’s bathroom in Praiano, this one was small and had ancient fixtures. She washed her face, neck, and underarms in the sink to hold her over until she showered later. Soap and water, or possibly the ritual of bathing itself, cleansed off the stressful day of travel and helped transition her into this long-awaited moment. Her worries lifted and her fears circled the basin and vanished down the drain.
Perla emerged from the bathroom.
“Let’s go get some dinner. It’ll be cooler in here when we return,” Vito said. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Anything…” She pictured them naked in bed, eating those chocolate strawberries and drinking champagne.
“I know a place only a short walk from here, but let’s go now”—he pulled Perla into another hug, this time sliding his hand down her backside—“because if I’m here alone with you any longer, we’ll likely go hungry tonight.”
Perla shivered despite the heat.
Ten minutes later, they sat at an outdoor table under a canvas canopy. The sky had clouded up and threatened to burst. Vito exchanged greetings in Italian with the restaurant owner, who sent a waiter over with a complimentary bottle of pinot grigio. A few raindrops hit the cobbled street and sizzled.
“What do you want?” Vito’s eyes twinkled with the promise of ecstasy.
“You know what I want… better than anyone else.”
“To eat.”
Beneath the tablecloth, Vito lifted her ankle, slid off one of her sandals, and set her heel between his legs. He stroked the soft spot behind her knee until she squirmed in her seat.
“You’re a tease,” Perla said.
“You have no idea.”
The food came, but Perla didn’t remember ordering it. The sensation of Vito’s eyes sliding down her body, undressing and caressing her, muddled her thoughts. She didn’t smell the pasta on her plate, only the pheromonal notes of his bergamot-and-lime scent; she didn’t taste the wine, only the salty residue on Vito’s fingers when he fed her an olive and traced the shape of her lips; and she didn’t hear his story about learning the tango in Buenos Aires, only the sensual timbre of his voice.
Their walk back to the apartment passed in a fog. Before Perla knew it, her dress lay crumpled on the floor alongside Vito’s shirt. She undid his belt, unzipped his shorts, and pulled them down with his briefs. One continuous pelt of fur connected his neck to the dark V between his thighs. What a beast. She ruffled his chest hair with all ten fingers and raked them down his stomach. At about the tan line, Vito twisted away.
“I have a question.” He came up behind her, unclasped her bra, reached around, and gently cupped her breasts.
“What?” Perla breathed.
He pressed his chin into her neck. “Are you in the mood for polite sex or good sex?”
“What have we been having?” Perla rubbed her cheek against his short, soft beard. There was no way their lovemaking could get any better.
“Polite sex,” he whispered.
“So you’ve been holding out on me?”
“Maybe…” Vito nipped her earlobe.
Unbelievable. “Good sex it is then—to hell with manners!” She ducked out of his embrace. “But first I need to shower.” Body odor was a character flaw—and if you waited until you smelled yourself, it was far too late. “Please excuse me.”
“Right behind you. I need a rinse too.”
When Perla came out of the shower, she saw that Vito had dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and put on some music. While he took his turn in the bathroom, Perla sat naked on the bed in front of the fan, letting the air evaporate the moisture on her skin.
The shower stopped and the bathroom door opened. Vito stood naked, framed in the bathroom light. What was he up to? He did something on his phone, and the distinct rhythm and melody of tango music filled the air. He strode into the middle of the bedroom, stopped short, and gave Perla the classic pained-but-smoldering look perfected by tango dancers. Feet planted, he pulled the towel from his shoulder and flung it down and away like a matador, extended his hand palm up, and curled his index finger at Perla.
“No, no… You can’t be serious,” Perla said. “I can’t dance! I’m a nerd!”
He pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. Just follow my lead.”
Vito ignored her protests and drew her off the bed. He swung her around twice, never losing eye contact, and jerked her body against his. Their skin slapped together like clapping hands. He pressed his left palm into the small of her back so tight their foreheads touched. Their lips hovered an inch apart, but he didn’t kiss her. His skin simmered, moist and insistent.
Perla’s pulse quickened to match the rhythm of the music. The way he took charge aroused her. Her body melted, surrendering to his control. Vito raised her arm and trailed his fingers slowly down th
e inside of her wrist and elbow, hovering a quarter inch over her breast. Her breath caught. Take me! her mind screamed, but he pushed her away, twirling her out and back again. They froze, face-to-face, and quickstepped sideways, right arms extended.
Forward, backward, stop; fast, slow, twirl. More dizzying spins took them through the open glass doors into the patio. Vito swung her around to face him, and Perla’s foot knocked over a potted geranium. Panting, lips parted, he lowered his head to kiss her. Mouths just millimeters apart, he dropped her into a back-bending dip, grasped her behind one knee, and lifted her thigh to his waist. Il Duce pressed rock hard against her stomach.
“Oh Vito…,” Perla breathed. “You’re torturing me.”
With her still draped backward, head almost touching the floor, Vito straightened her leg and ran his thumb from the inside of her ankle down the length of her inner thigh.
“Please,” Perla begged, “I can’t stand it anymore!”
His finger was… just… about… there. When she was a hairbreadth from combustion, Vito dropped her leg, whipped her around, and stood behind her, pressed tightly against her backside. He placed one hand, fingers splayed, over her belly and lightly pinched her nipple with the other. Pelvis against buttocks, he pushed forward in lockstep. Vito’s fingers dipped between her thighs and her legs gave way.
In a blur of flesh, Vito lifted Perla by the waist. He spun her in the air, crushed her against the wall, and drove Il Duce home.
“Yes, Vito! Yessss!” Perla locked her legs around his hips, consuming him body and soul.
A refreshing breeze wafted into the patio around midnight. Perla sat close to Vito on the mattress he’d dragged outside, enjoying the coolness of the brick wall against her shoulders.
“Open up.” Vito touched the tip of a chocolate-covered strawberry to Perla’s lips.
She bit gently and sucked the juice about to dribble down her chin. Flakes of chocolate fell onto her naked thigh, little specks in the moonlight.