Another | outlines
I swear by the saints — that I will tell her when the time is right.
It is close to midnight, but Anna is not home. I am sure of it, because her worn leather pumps are missing from their footstool. Because the ashtray had not been emptied from the previous night — the small room is still full of smoke. And because I am here.
The daffodils from last Monday hang limp from their bottle. If I lean my cheek against the window-frame, I can see the dim shimmers of sodium street lamps cut through murky glass — casting a sickly orange tint onto these plaster walls, onto the messy table, transforming the flower vase into a twisted statuette. Anna likes daffodils, and camellias too. I promised her those red camellias we saw the arborist sell, when we last walked the Via Margutta. I promise her flowers every night. And I swear ‘I shall get my Anna a bouquet of this, or that.’ But the time is never right for it. And when we lie together and the door keeps creaking, when the sink does not turn or when the stove does not light, Anna turns to me with a cloud over her dark eyes. Valentino! And I promise that I will find the someone. But that someone never comes.
She asks me as she takes my shirt from the washroom, when I am shaving, about the cause of my lateness and I tell her. Business matters. Loose errands that took me from one district to another. Running deliveries. In the silence of the night, I would light the lamp to find her sleeping soundly — her thin arms draped over the sheets, the steady rise and fall of her breasts, tangles of dark hair pooled about her face and obscuring her neck from my eyes. And when I arrive quietly with the dawn, I take pains to scrape the grass from my boots, wash the perfume from my mouth, smoothen my hair. When I settle beside her, I can feel her stir a little and my heart grows heavy. But she does not know. She cannot know. I promise. I swear by the saints — that I will tell her when the time is right. That I am a bastardo for breaking her heart. That I am sick. That I do not deserve someone as sweet as my dear Anna.
Yet it is now midnight, and I am fastening my belt, and dusting my coat. Oh dear god — I cannot resist it. Those fiendish, warm fantasies of embrace and rapture. Those lips as red as fresh camellias. The excitement and the guilt. Now I turn the key to the door. Now I lower my cap. Now I take a deep breath, and cast Anna’s sad eyes from my mind. I promise her and I promise us. Just one last night. So I plunge into the shadows of the street, and scour for another girl to love.
