She had never spoken the words, had never told me that she had forgiven me for sending her to Paris, for the separation. And I had never told her that I had forgiven her for dancing for Nemours, for exposing to the world what had always been ours alone.
I asked her if we had come full circle in Italian.
“Cerchio completo,” she said.
I kissed her lips. “Tutti perdonati.”All forgiven.
She sighed, long and hard, “Amen,” she said.
* * *
Two days later, on our last night in the city of light, we stumbled through her streets, drunk on love and whatever we had with dinner. Everything seemed funny, even when it probably wasn’t.
Scarlett stumbled a bit, laughing so hard that she found it hard to walk. I couldn’t even remember what I said that had struck her as hilarious. By all accounts, her mood shouldn’t have been as buoyant as it was. After the private performance at Palais Garnier, she told me her leg felt sore. The same doctor who had done her surgery years ago confirmed that he felt she should take a break. He was concerned for the health of her bones. It was like he had given her a card that freed her of the responsibility of making a life-changing decision for a while. I wasn’t a man to run from circumstances or responsibilities, but if giving her a little time was what she needed, so be it.
“I think I have a rock in my heel,” she said, giggling even harder, catching my attention.
I helped her sit at a small table right outside of a bistro. She crossed her legs and went to remove the shoe, but I shooed her hand away.
The heel was high and slick and midnight black, with a scarlet undersole that reminded me of blood. Black stockings covered her legs, and a black dress hugged every one of her curves. Her (my) leather jacket covered her arms.
“How did I let you leave the apartment in this?” I said, knocking the shoe against the pavement. “You look—”
“What?” she said, almost breathless. “How do I look?”
“Indecent.”
“You’re so grumpy sometimes, Fausti. But I know what youneed.” She nudged me with her shoeless foot, in the center of my stomach, and wiggled her toes. Then her head went back and her laughter became contagious. A cold wind swept over the street at the same time, rustling her hair and clothes. Her perfume smelled so sweet in the air.
I dug in her big black bag and pulled out her camera. I snapped a picture of her the way she was, laughing so hard that her eyes had closed and crinkled, and her mouth seemed so much wider. I hoped that tonight had earned me a laugh line on her face.
“Oh!” She nudged me with her foot again. “Put my heel on,mio angelo! Hurry!”
A hard black pebble rolled from her shoe, and I slipped it back on and helped her up. We walked arm in arm to the sounds of a guitar and a moody voice singing along with it. We found a crowd that had formed around a street performer singing for his supper.
Scarlett leaned into me. “Madame George,” she said, her voice still holding the excitement of the night, but softer, letting the romance in.
We swayed to the slow tempo. It was easy to get lost in the song.
“You know,” she whispered, “after you told me about the voice saying, ‘she is yours,’ I realized that that was one of the longest speeches you’d ever given. A record setter.”
I laughed. “You’re infectious, baby. I caught the feels. That’s what I get for living with a woman who likes to express her emotions in wordy rhapsodies or through the silent speech of her body. You’re either loud with your words or as quiet as a whisper with your moves.”
“Oh,” she said, drawing her breath out. “I like that. ‘Wordy rhapsodies.’ But too bad ‘wordy’ can’t be spelled without the y. Something about words that end in the letter ‘y’ make the page seem—I don’t know. Unkempt? ‘Wordie,’ with an ie instead of a y sounds proper—almost sensual. Wordie,” she said with a French accent.
My wife was such a fucking nerd. I laughed even harder, pulling her closer, kissing her temple. She shook her head and tapped her lips, wanting me to kiss her there instead. One thing led to another and we twirled through the street, toward an alley void of people.
Not too far in, right on the edge, we made out to the rhythm of the song. Our touches were slow and light, kisses even slower but deep.
“I love you,” she said, as we broke apart for a second. “I love you so much.”
Her hands on my shoulders froze as every hair stood erect on my body. I turned, keeping Scarlett sandwiched between the wall and me.
There was no one there.
“There will be,” she whispered.
As soon as the words were out, a shape materialized out of the darkest alcove of the alley, and it seemed to come together from shadows. The pale face and hands stood out stark against the night. The whites of his eyes were hardly visible, overtaken by dilated pupils that made him seem more monster than man.
