#68 A Moment In Venice
A random sight puts a fight into perspective for a young couple in Venice.
Enjoy Big Special’s Black Dog / White Horse to partner this read.
Ride the white horse of the archive.
For literature by other writers, click here.
#68 A Moment In Venice
We don’t talk for ages. You’re annoyed because of something I said. I’m annoyed because you’re annoyed at something I said.
We sit out at some café stalls overlooking the canals to the left and the lagoon to the right. The sound of waiters collecting plates and mugs, cutlery clinking against the china, and the mumbling chatter of the cafe’s few other guests occupy us both. It’s like there’s something there that both of us cling to.
We have our sunglasses on, hoping that that means nobody can see the sadness in our eyes. I look away, down the path that scales the canal, watching the couples holding hands, the Dad with the child on his shoulders, the old woman walking her chihuahua. A boat slides past, silently. A golden old man reaches into what I assume can only be filthy water, and washes his face with it.
Across the lagoon, the sun sets behind some palazzo, its tall red tower reaching into the clouds, clouds that span the whole horizon, and billow and puff up into the sky, one plume protruding from another in a series of explosions. The plum pinkness in the sky pervades everything. The dark, green water is tinged with it. The windows of the café swallow it. Your skin speaks back to it.
I try to speak to you, but when I open my mouth, I don’t know what to say. Your expression is cool, emotionless, and I wonder if you’re battling it underneath. In fact, I know you are.
I go to the bathroom. When I return, I see your back through the cut out of your black dress, your face hidden beneath those sunglasses, against the sky and the palazzo. All I want to do is to put my arm around you. To say, let’s forget it. Let’s pretend nothing happened. Pretend I never said what I said.
I stand there a moment watching you. You’re looking to the canals, and I follow your eyes. An old couple walk past slowly: the man with a stick to prop him up, the woman with her arm linked in his. They walk in silence, but not in a cold way. In a way that says they have that deep understanding. Like they’re always communicating, wordlessly. You stare at them as they pass. I step closer to you. You turn slightly, not to me but not away from me. And in a glint of light, a tear slides down your cheek.
I come and put am arm around you and you put an arm around me and, as I sit back down, you put your head on my shoulder and we quietly let the plum Venetian light wash us clean.
