This story is part of the literary competition created by In Trieste magazine “Winter in Trieste” which was open to all writers living in Trieste.
by Geraldo Brachette
The things you remember: in the entrance was her bookshelf, scholastic books, a few novels. No titles come to mind though there were some physics. Then, her please, please, please… while we made love; her hand often coming up to cover her mouth, to cover her cries.
Or that first meeting: though she said she had visited my shop I still to this day have no recollection- so that first time, seemingly, that I saw her, waiting for me at the top of the stairs to take me up the last flight. Her impish smile; my first impression, a wounded bird, cute, no beauty (but that would change in time).
And then? That was February, before the winter of lockdown. This is now. Only impressions remain, longing, loneliness. I don’t contact her anymore, after I, time and time again, reached out, which she never once initiated.
I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’m sorry. These cries weren’t said to me, as she curled up, fetal-like. I would try to help her: tell me, tell me, please, if you can. Often these episodes, attacks, would come later, after she came. Or in the dark at night if I startled her after coming back from the bathroom. Sometimes I could hold her; more often not, so I would wait there in the dark: breathe, just breathe slowly, stay with it, let it come.
Father, father, let me love you
Saw you wandering in my dream last night…
Later, some months after: after she had said I love you and after I hadn’t answered her; after many more Ti voglio bene’s, she gave me a sit down: This is not working for me anymore. Later we made love -desperate love, love of leaving and separation. Later, she regularly said that I didn’t want her anymore. And later still- It is what it is, she explained, her cold hug, a hug like your aunt would give you, after we had not seen each other for the summer, a summer of me walking half away across the Italian peninsula, foraging for solace, through my loss and sadness. It didn’t work.
Now, she’s back with her former lover, love of her life, damaging lover, destroying lover. I stay alone, though I passed through an affair or two, some crushes, some rekindled stories. And winter is circling round now, like it passed away then: slowly, assuredly, uncomfortably. Like she passed through me too. Like all seasons. Each one the same, each one slightly different. Something exquisite, something painful, mournful. Pieces of a puzzle yet each distinct in its melancholy and hope. Like we were- two pieces looking for a fit: and we did, but there were just too many gaps in-between our edges.
