Antilove

Trentadue

CAPITOLO TRENTADUE

a midnight waltz

***

LIQUID MELLIFLUOUS MOONLIGHT strolls through the windows, slightly ajar and the slow breeze of the night tickles the curtains ever so slightly. The scent of rainwater upon cobblestone reaches Rose's nose and by reflex, she inhales deeply, blinking sleep away from her eyelids.

A soft haze blankets the room, sinewy streams of silver reaching each corner. It was if she had awoken upon a field of lilies and her body, now featherlight, lay suspended from the ground. A fluttering lands on her nose, so receptive a sweetness, and instinctively, she searches for the warmth in such close proximity to her—the tip of her fingers meet skin, meet wrist and hot pulse. Her touch elicits response, a sound that touches not only her ears. "Jetlag?" Lucien murmurs gently beside her.

Rose lifts her eyes and sees Lucien, always a steady figure in her landscape.

"Yes. And my throat's dry." She sits up, her two hands diving into the plush mattress. "What have you been doing? Not sleeping."

Though the weather in Rome was temperate, perhaps somehow even warm after nightfall, a coldness nips at Rose's ankles as she makes her way to their kitchen-suite to get a glass of water. She fumbles around the cupboards before locating two glasses and fills them up. The rhythmic ticking of the analog clock hanging in the living room fills the spaces between her breathing and her footsteps back to their room.

Lucien awaits, eyes fixated on his tablet. Twilight strikes only a quarter of his profile, and Rose approaches his bedside, the curls of his lashes coming into focus and the way they reflect the twilight. "I was planning for tomorrow," he says, not sparing her a glance. "I was thinking all the famous, historical places? What do you think?"

She watches him blink lazily and stifle a yawn. Waiting response, his right brow quirks and he lifts his gaze to match hers, face still only half-blessed by light, a dimly lit fresco.

Finally, Rose thinks, breath bated. "I want a Bottega Veneta bag." Suddenly embarrassed by the first thing to reach her tongue, Rose quickly sets down Lucien's glass of water and hurries to her side of the bed. His chuckles follow her retreating figure.

"I expect nothing less from you," he says. "Your wish is my command." He turns his torso to face her and, like she had done in her drowsiness, finds her hand with his. His thumb brushes the back of her hand almost methodically and this gesture expels a breath Rose had buried deep within her chest.

"Actually I want a Goyard bag. And Bottega Veneta heels."

"Anything else? Jewelry?"

"A nice dress."

"What about the one you brought? That green one? I like it." He plays with her hand absentmindedly.

"I want a new one. A pretty red dress."

"Sure, sure. But do wear that green one sometime."

"The Vatican Museums."

"Yes?"

"Let's go tomorrow. That fountain too, I want to make a wish."

"Trevi?" Lucien's eyes remain clear and the corners are wrinkled ever so slightly when he looks at her. The faint etch of a smile forms at his lips and although all Rose can see is an outline of his figure—hair, cheek, jaw, neck, and shoulder—she traces the features of his fine face with her eyes. "Fontana di Trevi was on my list already."