I wake up with a start.
At first, I can't focus on where I am. I have a feeling it's morning. Like when you are still half asleep but you start to realize that you are awake and suddenly you get assaulted by all the things you have to do and you don't want to do and you start thinking that maybe you can stay in bed a little longer. But then you think about it and open your eyes.
And I realize it.
I'm not in my bed. I'm still here. In this goddamn elevator.
«Are you okay?» Flavio Moreno's voice is a light and hoarse whisper. When I look at him, I see him staring at me with small dark eyes. How many different shades can his gaze have?
«How long have I slept?»
«A half hour.»
«I'm sorry.»
He shakes his head slightly. «You must not.» He then adds. «This day is turning out to be pretty heavy.» I feel a streak of resignation in his voice.
No need to ask him if anyone showed up. If our cell phones miraculously got back to work. If he has heard noises or voices or anything that makes us think we will be out of here shortly.
Flavio Moreno's hair has lost the grace of this morning and slightly dishevelled locks fall on his forehead. They suit him.
«And how are you?»
He doesn't answer me immediately. He does when I'm about to repeat the question or hole up in my world.
«I do not know. A strange way to think I suppose.»
Maybe he doesn't want to talk and I should leave him alone.
After all, what do I know about him?
Apart from the little information I have gleaned on the internet and the meagre news he has given me since we've been in here, I know practically nothing about him. He's been my boss for a few weeks. So? Among other things, we belong to completely different worlds. What can I know that guys like him do in certain situations?
«Can we be a bit less formal? Do you mind?» He says suddenly and almost startled.
What do I do? What do I tell him?
We've been here for hours and we're not just acquaintances anymore, are we? I think a minimum of intimacy has been created. Small. Tiny.
What if I say yes and then regret it?
However, if he asked me...
«All right.»
He nods and remains silent.
The thing is, I really don't know if I'll be able to call him by name. My parents instilled in me such an exaggerated notion of respect that I still call the baker on the corner of my house on the Lido mister Quadrino and not Fernando, who is his name and I don't know how many times he repeated it to me. And we're talking about a guy I know since I wasn't walking yet, the guy who gave me gummies to stop crying when, in the pram, I sobbed into his shop next to my mom; the guy who, when I peed next to the drinks table at the age of three, had a big laugh and gave me a good-natured pat on the head. It's not that I do it on purpose. I think 'Fernando' and instead 'mister Quadrino' comes out.
With Flavio Moreno it will be the same. Worse.
«Do you see your folks often?»
He has to stop talking so suddenly. Especially while we are silent and I am engaged in a deep conversation with myself.
YOU ARE READING
A very bad weekend
ChickLitVic lives in Rome and works at a periodical called "Dalla settimana" for which she is a proofreader and writes obituaries. She spends the day fantasizing about the dead she has to write about, dodging her boss and three evil colleagues and sharing h...
