Page 66 of Slanting Towards the Sea
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FLORENCE. RHYTHMS AND CADENCES of a new town, of a new self. Beauty that is similar to the one I know from my hometown, but bolder, grander, more imposing. No sea. Hard to get my bearings without the ground always sloping toward the sea.
New old habits. Drinking coffee every morning in a cafe at Piazza Santo Spirito.
The sound of Italian all around me, memories of ?ime, the Italian teacher, and of Marina.
A question unanswered: Where is she, what is she doing?
Are she and Vlaho still sleeping in the same bed, waking up together?
I’m sure they still live together, that was the whole point of Vlaho renouncing me—us—but I can’t imagine that after everything that happened, things between them stayed exactly as they’d been.
In a paper bag next to my feet, a dry-cleaned, ironed white lab coat.
I inhabit it intimately now, six months after I first received it.
I know its coarseness and hardiness the way the skin of a woman knows the touch of her lover.
Tighter across the breasts and hips, looser around the stomach and arms.
Pasta. So much pasta that I might need a new lab coat soon. It’s not that it’s so delicious, it’s that it tastes of home.
Homesickness. A nostalgia that catches me by surprise at the craziest, most unexpected times.
At dawn on Sunday when I’m between sleep and wakefulness, and the church’s tower bell starts clanking, inviting people to Mass.
When the sun filters through windows a certain way, the motes dancing in the same circles I watched so many times in my room back home.
The sight of the babu?ka when I open the drawer where I keep my documents.
In a restaurant, the taste of fennel soup bringing me back to the dry summery scent of its wild cousin at Lovorun.
Asier. Who sometimes passes through town and takes me out for coffee or dinner.
Whom I sometimes invite back to my apartment for a night spent next to the warm body of someone I hold so dear.
Asier, showing me photos of Lovorun. “The infinity pool looks good,” I say, though it pains me to admit it.
The olives, at least, have been salvaged, or I’d like to believe that they were.
That they managed to take root somewhere on Dugi Otok, maybe the part of it that overlooks Kornati National Park, the place where Vlaho and I made love the last time.
Vlaho. Opening Instagram religiously with my morning coffee at Piazza Santo Spirito.
Looking for a green circle around his profile photo.
“Only close friends can view this story,” the green circle implies, but I believe it is intended for one person alone.
This, the only means of communication between us since we last talked.
In his stories, sometimes a photo. Of an olive tree. Of the sea, blue like forget-me-nots. Of the town bridge. Of my family home, shutters closed over my room window. Of a chestnut husk in his hand, tips of his fingers charred with ash, looking like an offering.
Other times, a photo of a note, scribbled in his slanted handwriting. The same handwriting I remember from the Post-its he used to leave all over our home. A note that talks of longing. Of homesickness too, for home is not a place, it’s a person. A story intended for one, viewed only by one.
My world tipping ever so slightly in his direction, as it always does.