In Fara Sabina
. . . The sun is blinding when seen straight on. Florence’s sun lit a sky far brighter than the heavens, bathing in the light her bones borne and outstretched. I wandered in a dress shirt, three top buttons unbuttoned, shades to shield my eyes, and a cigarette dancing between my lips. I wrote to Claire every day in Florence. A welcomed anchor, I enjoyed the thought of returning to her and explaining my sojourn in greater detail. I mostly wrote at night, smoking cigarettes and drinking Birra Moretti. I liked to think of the man on the bottle as a friend. We had conversations in my head, but he wasn’t much for talking.
My desire for a woman strengthened as I started to flirt with Karina from England who had dark hair and a small build. She was from Manchester, if memory serves. She wore two cheek dimples the size of sinkholes. She was older than me, maybe thirty-two years old, and being an eleutheromaniac, she never made plans. She giggled often and had a funny way of talking.
Karina attended the David school but skipped with me to tear up the streets and run afoul in a foreign land. I loved her accent and the way she sounded when she climaxed. It was like hearing music in a foreign language, a new take on an old classic. Karina was sensual; she loved to drink and fuck. I wondered if she had a man back in England, but our conversations never went there. We talked about what we wanted to do and not what we did. We smoked cigarettes in bed and shared a thin cotton blanket. The air in Florence was enveloping, and most of the time, it was all she needed, walking the apartment naked. In the early afternoon, after our morning wine, she loved to be naked. She loved her body, and I loved it too. I took her in my mouth; she tasted of Chianti, wet as wine. Karina could have been my wife in another life, but maybe that was just Florence. On our last night, we went to Ponte Vecchio after dark and fucked blatantly on the bridge. She was going to Greece the next day, and I was headed south, still unsure of my destination, but that could be decided later. I walked her to the apartment she rented on Via Della Stuta, where we embraced for the last time. She still has a piece of me if she chose to retain it. Florence, a magnificent city with a more magnificent woman.
I stopped at a bar for a nightcap and ended up too drunk to walk home. I woke up in bed, having no idea how I got there. I remember falling and smacking my shoulder on the pavement, but little is known after that. I was in Florence’s hands, and she treated me kindly. Florence was breathing, her chest moving to the beat of footsteps, a steady march, keeping pace. She was a pleasure to know. Her more affable characteristics came through when exploring her structures. There are no shortages of tourists or people just passing through; her bricks have been tested. Florence can handle the attention. She has a special place saved for me inside the shadow of Medici Manor. Roads doubling as walkways, vehicles allowing safe passage, a grand scene for all to see. The beautiful people spend cash amongst the gypsies, who pray to the God of change. I was in my own lane, as I had not enough to shop at Gucci but just enough for wine. The sun washes over Florence, sweeps across Santo Spirito, glinting down across the Arno. There are overwhelming hues of red in Florence. It may be due to the Duomo, but it was something else, something inherent. The blood of Florence is the people; they carry oxygen through her circulatory system, using streets as her veins.
I said goodbye to her and gave a kiss before parting. I boarded a train and headed southeast for Bari. I find that a single goodbye is sufficient for most departures in life, as both Florence and Karina were in my past now . . .
