A growl rumbled in my chest, and two young women walking by, English by their accents, gave me a wide birth, but further down the street, they grew closer together, laughing into each other, and then gave me backward glances.
“Fausti,” I called out toward them.
They stopped, narrowed their eyes, and shook their heads, lifting their hands as if they did not understand. They seemed to think Fausti was an Italian word and not a given name.
Neither woman was the taker of my special packages then.
“Lunch!” one of them called out. “Lunch?”
“Errr…” The other one pulled her backpack forward, unzipped it, and searched through it until she lifted a short fat book and started thumbing through its pages. “Er,pranzo,I think!”
The other woman made a motion between them. “With us? We are new here in Italy.” She made sure to pronounce every word correctly, punctuating breaths between them.
Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. I did not recognizemy life lately. The women were beautiful, but I had no interest in lunch with them. I did not even want to look at them. I briefly wondered if my wife was a succubus and was draining the life out of me. She did not mind sex alone lately and enjoyed the pasta I fed her in bed after—the intimacy she felt I needed—but Rosaria would always be Rosaria, and she was becoming a part of my shadow after the Paris trip.
She was up to something. Sometimes I imagined her with a jaunty yellow feather sticking from her blood-red lips. And even though my life could possibly be short, life with her felt like dreaded centuries, though in a way, she was becoming a shelter for me, even if she brought storms inside with her.
I understood the feeling, but then again, I did not.
Especially after the forgotten trip to Trapani. The specifics had been washed clean from my memories—I was the only one in control of my thoughts—but the blood in my veins was a constant subconscious reminder that I had not been wanted since before I was conceived. All I seemed to be good for was becoming a ruthless king in the Fausti family and pleasing my wife with my “massive cock,” as she called it. I refused to call it a “pleasure beam,” as her friend did.
My life lately, ah?
The sound of heels clicking on the pavement came from behind me, and the two young women scattered like little mice in the face of a hunting lioness. My wife scared even some men. I should have been proud of this, and perhaps there was a slight bit of pride—she was formidable and could handle her own as a woman—but mostly, she tired me. Not physically, but someplace much deeper.
She slid her hand over my shoulder as she made it to my side. “Hello, husband,” she said in a bright tone, as if she was happy to see me, but I wondered why. “I see you had two great options till I came along. Did I scare those pretty ladies away?” She snapped her teeth close to my ear.
I removed her hand and stepped away. “My special package has been taken. Twice.”
She blinked at me, a slow grin coming to her face. Then she repeated what I’d said but in a sad voice. “Come now,” she said in a faux sweet voice. “You can always get more.”
“Tell me,” I said in Italian. “What you know about this situation.”
She sighed, as dramatic as she was. “If I tell you what I know, will you tell me what has been eating you lately?”
“No,” I said.
“Is it about a woman?”
“It was.”
She studied my face. “Have you fallen in love?”
A slow grin came to my face at the look on her face. She did not want me falling in love. Not the kind of love she could not give me.
“Tell me, if I have.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I will kill her.”
“Ah,” I breathed out. “I can fuck anything with a hole, but love is not allowed.”
“The flesh and the heart are separated by bones for a reason, Rocco Fausti. We are allowed to love our arrangement, but any further than that, we might become weakened.”
“And you were not born to love that way.”
“No, I was not. I was born for you.”
That was the most romantic thing she had ever said to me, even if it was delusional.
