Alexis

Sikhismo, Buddismo e Baci Arancioni

Sikhism, Buddhism and Orange Kisses

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My Saturday was slow. I spent most of my time doing what I do in my free time: reading, exercising, practicing Italian, plotting. I had a job interview but that was short and I was hired on the spot. I'd start Tuesday morning. I added something new to my schedule today. I decided to clean my room. Deep clean. So there I was, rearranging my closet so it'd fit all the excess clothes I had laying around. I always kept my room relatively clean. I didn't have clothes sprawled all over my room but in certain places there were items.

In my bathroom, in the corner, near the door and the bathroom cabinet under the sink, was a small cluster of t-shirts that I wore to bed. Near my bed, toward the end, was a gently shaped hill of soft shorties that I wore here and there. I didn't wear them to bed so they nested on the floor at the end of my bed. Near the left end of my sofa were a few discarded bras. Although I didn't go anywhere besides work and the gym, occasionally the library, and if I felt like grabbing a bite to eat, I'd stop in to pick up something (I never actually eat in those places. I felt like too much of a loser and a loner to sit there by myself. Sure, Tito was always around, lurking, but I was too nervous to ask him to sit with me.), I still wore bras here and there. However, I was out of all my bras. They were discarded near my sofa. What would happen is I would get back and think I don't even notice the bra, I can deal with it, and then I'd sit on the floor, between the coffee table and sofa, and work. When I'd lean back, I could feel the clip that held my bra together. I'd take it off right there, thus creating the pile.

As I was finishing my clothes situation, someone knocked on my door. I could tell by the pattern that it was Vincent. I called for him to come in. I was sitting on the floor in front of my dresser. I was working in the bottom drawer, almost finished.

I turned my head when he walked in. He didn't notice me right away. He tilted his head when he saw me on the ground. "What are you doing?" he asked in Italian.

"Cleaning," I answered in English. "What do you want?"

I watched as he half frowned and walked over to me. He sat down, slightly across from me, slightly next to me. "Why don't you answer me?" he asked as I neatly put my shirts in the drawer.

"What are you talking about?" I asked and glanced at him. "I always answer you. I'm answering you right now," I proved.

He shook his head as he denied what I said. "In Italian," he specified.

"Why would I?" I questioned, not looking at him. I put my last article in the drawer, closed it, and stood.

"Because I want to hear you. Correct you, teach you," he explained and copied me, standing. I walked over to my desk to clear off some of the clutter. Napkins, water bottles, scattered pens, pencils, and highlights.

"Maybe I don't need you to teach me nor correct me," I said. "I don't want to speak in a different language around you," I said as I dropped my writing utensils into a holder.

"Why?" he asked me. "You understand what I say."

"No shit," I mused as I threw away the napkins and tissues. "Why?" I repeated. "You were the one who said I didn't speak it well. Remember?" I asked and turned around to look at him. "Because I do," I said and walked past him to cross my room.

"Si. . . ." he mumbled.

"In fact— if I'm not mistaken, and I know I'm not— you said a lot more than that. Remember? 'Cause I do. What makes you think I'd speak to you in Italian after you insulted me about it— more than once," I pointed out.