SUPERNOVA | pannacotta fugo

2: vino pregiato

As a young child I was never one to admit what was wrong or how I felt. I grew up around far too many ignorant adults drowning in their own worries and pride to even care about what an infant thought.

Though, the days and nights passed by faster than the time it takes for a rock to hit the ground- and when I realized, a week had passed.

Exam came, exam went, and no words were spoken by the end of the 7 hellish days, life felt mundane. Nothing happened, just notebooks filled with nonsense, while I looked for answers for questions that would define my very own future. Thoughts rolled around like a confused die, wondering what number to pick between one and six and speak my fortune, but the die spun and spun, always flickering pictures, week-old interactions and desired messages that never arrived. 

The room reeked of coffee and all-nighters. Windows barricaded with pillows and a single office chair waiting for the return of my weight. I sat comfortably on said chair, leafing through an old book gifted by my grandparents and savouring the taste of relaxation after a piece of me died when the professor collected the papers that would write my tomorrow. 

'Ding'

The phone whispered my name. 

The message read, 'Is this Terza D'Speranza?', and I awoke.

My fingers tampered against the screen, rushing from letter to letter in doubt of what to reply. "Yes" or "Uhum" felt far too simple.

'That's me'

The response arrived faster than expected. 'This is Narancia, Fugo told me you should be done with exams by now and'

He stopped typing, but soon resumed his statement.

'Are you free today? For a class'

I rejoiced at the message. 'Sure, sure. I'm free from 4 pm till morning, honestly'

'Fugo said yes'

And so, the rest of my morning was spent thinking of the afternoon.

Like a flightless bird learning to dive and glide, reflecting always on the next step taken by its weak legs instead of the current challenge. Skipping the today and always pondering on the tomorrow. 

Soon enough, the Sun kissed the sky goodnight and began to take refugee behind the nimbostratus clouds. The huge masses of condensed raindrops dyed the heavens dark, hues of gray and black infesting the big blue in no way lenient. 

Reaching for the cabinet I found a lighter, old and awfully rusted. The memories began to flush back as my hand reached for the metallic, rectangular box atop my counter.

When young, I always pondered on the taste of a cigarette, the smell of that god-forsaken cancer stick would be the only thing by me when night came and father was out with mother for dinner. I believe that with time I grew fond of it. Sometimes I even sit by people taking lengthy drags off their cigars to reminisce the good days. I was dependent on a silly something I never tried, even knowing it was bad. 

I took my phone, swiftly typing the words before hitting send. 

'I'm leaving my house at this exact moment. Will be waiting in front of Osteria Tulia'

Wondering if there was anything else to take, I set for the streets. The grass carried the scent of early August as leaves scattered along the sidewalk, a light drizzle puffing my hair.

 The clouds grew and darkened, from minute to second the soft tears became torrent. Heavy drops of water soaking the already humid jacket and leaving me exposed to the wind and sickness. I sought refugee under a large tree.