I need to go to the bathroom.
Urgently. URGENTLY go to the bathroom.
Draining Flavio's bottle of water has not been a great idea.
I'm trying to find a comfortable position to allow my bladder not to explode but the result is that I keep wriggling in the square foot of the lift intended for me.
«Are you ok?»
I just nod as I try to stretch my pelvis and legs.
Anything. I have to get out of here and pee.
NOW.
«Ludovica?"
«I need to go to the toilet.» Finally I say, deeply ashamed. And, anyway, it's not that there is so much to be ashamed of if you have to go, is there? Physiological needs are part of the human being.
«Me too. But if you keep moving, you don't help me either.»
Suddenly, before my eyes appears an image of Flavio in his bathroom at home, unfastening his belt and starting to lower the flap of his trousers.
I instinctively close my eyes and squeeze them.
Go away. Bad pictures. Away! This is no time to fantasize. You can do it when I'm home. Alone. And in more stable mental conditions.
«Ludovica?»
I open my eyes and I see him in front of me with a worried air.
It's not like I can tell him I had a vision of him half undressed in the bathroom, right?
«We've been here for hours. We will never go out.» I affirm instead.
My voice is a bit moaning but it is also his fault. We spent the last half hour chatting as if we were old friends who haven't seen each other for a while and absolutely must keep up to date on the latest events. We talked about Lu and Rebecca. We laughed at my stories about Riccardo («Do we really have one like that at the newspaper?» «Yes, we really do») and he told me about all the times they stopped him at the airport because he had packed something which he shouldn't have (apparently I'm not the only one with my head in the clouds from time to time). He told me about his passion for Pasolini, the relationship he has with his grandfather and how he is trying to make up for lost time now that he is in Rome. I told him about my life at Lido dei Pini and about my landlord in Garbatella. We also started jotting down ideas on how that blog I mentioned earlier might be structured. So, you see, if you talk to a person like that, you're close to him, you can smell his skin, that mix of sandalwood shower gel, expensive aftershave and sweat, when you feel his heat next to yours, you just forget that you have your boss in front of you. Right?
And we've been here since 1pm. And we hear no noise, no jolt. And the damned elevator panel remains dead. Damn technology. Damn touchscreen.
I feel like crying.
I feel my eyes redden and a small tear coming out of the side of my right eye.
«Ludovica?»
I just can't look at him. Because if I looked at him I would start sobbing like an idiot. Of frustration and anger and helplessness and I don't even know what. But if I don't look at him, I could at least retain a little dignity.
«Hey?»
I feel two delicate fingers lift my chin and brush the skin of my cheeks to wipe away the tears. My eyes persist in not looking at him.
«I'm sorry.» I murmur. «I'm just tired.»
«We'll get out of this elevator.»
«You keep repeating it but what do we know? We've been locked in here for hours and nothing happened! We have nothing left to eat and drink, except a chocolate bar I bought for my nephew. And we have to go to the bathroom!» I almost scream at him and see him wince. «I'm sorry.»
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...
