I remember it as vividly
as if it was yesterday.
His body lying next to mine
in complete silence.
Reaching out to one another
in a simple gesture.
It was another Italian summer on the Riviera,
fulfilled with red wine, pineapple juice,
lectures on history and music.
It was another Italian dream
slowly turning into the nightmare.
A tiny bookstore at the corner of the street.
Closed in the morning,
usually full of people later in the evening.
They had been laughing, drinking,
probably discussing another collection of poetry
that had just come out.
I met him there, standing in the dark
with a glass of port in his hand.
Later that night, he loved me on the beach.
He loved me at his mother's old house
when we came to pay her a visit.
He loved me at his ex-lover's party
a weekend after we'd met.
He loved me everywhere.
He was the someone given to me to enlighten
those jours caniculaires.
I was a woman; he was a man.
A perfect match, so to say.
A perfect one, but not the only one
out of variety.
I loved loving him as much as I loved
the way my body felt his
while he was on top of me.
I loved him almost as much
as I loved myself.
What was it, the affair that had started
in the tiny city, at the tiny bookstore
somewhere on the Italian Riviera?..