This book plunges deeply into the mind of Valora Bianchi, a quiet and beautiful 27 year old apprentice temporarily studying abroad in the United States from Italy.
She collides with 29 year old Elena Rose, a troubled woman from surburban Seatt...
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II.
The First law of all existence, of all matter, of her. Neither created nor destroyed. A limitless energy. This isn't love. The famished deprivation that grew in Eve's stomach lived inside mine, reaching out to be filled with anything that tempted deliciously from her branches. She invited me this time. I did not imposshe on her like the few encounters before. She had invited me to spectate, invited me to read her pages. I spoke the languages of three women; some more fluently than others. And with that, I was never more eager to forget them.
The evening before I was more apprehensive than anticipating; a woman that spread like wild fire through my most dense regions now extended her hand to pull me in. The unknown swelled, demanding for a decision on the most agnoistic of claims - a claim of lust. To be claimed by a new woman; consumed. Observation was not an option anymore, she wanted experimentation, she wanted movement.
"Have dinner with me," she spoke so affluently before I could utter my own name, too flustered from the dreary courtroom and overcome by my own anxiety.
"I'm Elena, Elena Rose."
"Elena?"
"Have dinner with me," she sang again.
The night before tonight all I could hear were those same four words, that same sublime voice, suspended in mid-air above my head where sheep should leap. Dragging itself down the center of my chest, legs spread, in a trance, my hand grazed my navel as it crept lower. Spiking my pant; skipping my heartbeat.
"I'm Elena," her mouth whispered hot like a breeze in May against my earlobe, "have dinner with me?"
I hadn't slept. My insides burned with vehemence, the water ran cold in my bath; sloshing over the porcelain sides onto the floor. My muscles clenched themselves sore, my moans devoted.
Sara came by that afternoon, her yellow eyebrows plucked neat and sweater large, she laid horizontally across my bed, watching me sort through my dresses and lace.
"Who is this woman again? Do I know her?" she asked protectively.
The only thing that felt fitting to tell Sara was the woman's name. Oblivious in the hospital and unaware of that day in the courts, there was no need to share something so private. How would I begin to explain what I knew of Elena was only a silent exchange of adoration? Even in those precious moments we gawked at one another with intrigue, only a few words were ever spoken. The first few, her invite. The next few, the address of the restaurant. There was still gaps in my knowledge to be filled, and although I were satisfied with what she showed sound in her physique, or even in the concordance of her nature, I knew nothing. My sense of bodies was stronger than my sense of self - and sounding that out to Sara was as bizarre as it was futile.
