It happens that you can be in Italy, fall profoundly in love with a girl, write a novel for her and go to Venice where she’s from, and then leave, alone, in the same way that you came.
Some Italian girls are not only brunettes, but they have a face that you couldn’t differentiate whether it’s Italian or Arabic. You can only think of the Mediterranean as a common ground. Although not tanned, their skin looks like it had an affair with the sun since some time ago; their eyes like they’ve inherited the calm of the sea. She’s like this. You look at her face, and it feels as if you’re looking into a city by an ancient sea.
You see, this girl in the picture, is the best harvest of Italian girls. She is the jewel hidden deep within a dark portico in a local alley.
I’m very proud of my story. Whenever I meet someone I don’t know, I tell them that I came here for Marta. I tell them that I fell in love, wrote a novel and came all the way east from my city one day to surprise her. Usually, they are very enchanted, especially if they were American. “Wow, that’s so romantic”, and stuff like that. They look at me as if I’m coming out of a fairy tale. And so I’m very proud of this. I have my novel in the backpack and my sunglasses over my head and I’m walking proudly in the streets of Venice. “Yes, I’m that guy from a movie you saw when you were little”. But she… she’s something else.
Here I find myself sitting with her in a summer night alone over a roof overlooking the old city, reading her parts of her novel, and she likes it. But she has to go do the laundry. She’s happy with me, yes. She thinks its a very good novel, and it is. But she… she’s not impressed. She’s herself. No, guys don’t write her novels everyday. But for her, what matters is the person in front of her. “The important thing”, she would childishly say, “is the voice inside your belly; it tells you what to do”.
Often times, in relations, there are things that you don’t say. If a girl shows disinterest, you show that you don’t care. You try not to care, also, in order to fake it better. If she tells you that it’s done, you stop dwelling about her beauty because it’s done. But with her… no. She’s following the voice “inside her belly”. She’s honest, she has a beautiful smile and her eyes cannot be ignored. What do you do then? What do you do when her smile can only make you smile, her face can only make you happy, and her spirit feels like that of a child? You tell it to her. And although you know that it won’t change her mind, and if she wasn’t impressed with the novel she won’t be too impressed with your words, but you can’t help but keep looking at her as if you’re in front of a work of art, and keep admiring her beauty. Fuck all the rules of the game. You’re so beautiful, and that’s that. I’ll keep looking at her in this way, and I’ll keep saying those things that I say, because she deserves it. Because she is a work of art. Like when a child comes to tell you that they love you in a moment that they felt they want to say it. In grown up world, it’s not sexy, but you don’t care. In that moment, you let go of your mind, and you follow the voice inside your belly.
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