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My husband died on a rainy April morning in his early 60s. I was widowed at 56, having spent the last two years of my life caring for and treating Antonio who was seriously ill. Too sexting to close myself up in mourning; with still too much will to live and discover to say "it's over". The last two difficult years had, if nothing else, allowed me to re-establish a dialogue and a relationship with my husband, by now little more than a stranger with whom I lived with for pure convenience. The illness had made him more vulnerable, more fragile and helpless, afraid of death and, therefore, more human. But even this rapprochement had not been enough to mend the relationship that had been severely torn for years. I felt no pain at his death; I did not cry. Instead, I suddenly felt free. Free to have my time and my life as I had never had before. My son, Marco, had not lived with us for five years now; he had never put up with his father and at the first opportunity he left home to live with his girlfriend. Even for Marco the death of his father was not a great pain.
And now what was I doing with all that sudden freedom? Where did I start living my new life? I turned on the computer and said to myself "I will start from my main interest and love: literature". Soon I found a series of meetings held on Tuesday evenings at the library in my city, Rimini. Reading and commenting on passages from some of the most important Italian storytellers of the twentieth century. Next Tuesday was already the fourth meeting on Alberto Moravia, the author I had loved since I was a girl. There, my life would start again from there, from that cycle of meetings.
For that evening I prepared an old dark linen dress; I hadn't worn it for more than five years, but in those years, my physique hadn't changed much and it still fit me perfectly: long just below the knees and with a not too provocative neckline, but enough to show the attack of my still thriving and pleasing breasts. I would have matched it with black tights and medium heeled shoes. Finally I would have completed it with a pearl necklace and earrings, a purple velvet handbag and a thin veil of makeup that would enhance the black of my eyes and the contour of my thin lips.
I arrived twenty minutes early and when I entered the room there were only a few people. I chose a seat in the second row, still completely empty. Waiting for the meeting to begin, I pulled out of my handbag "The Man Who Looks", one of Moravia's novels among my favorites, and sat in the chair reading a few random pages.
Soon a sexting woman in her thirties sat next to me. I immediately noticed her slender and slender figure, long legs wrapped in tight jeans that stood out her perfection, a light sweater that made me feel small breasts that almost, with the nipple, I wanted to pop out. A harmonious and overall very pleasant face: blonde with short hair, bright eyes of a light chaste, small nose and soft lips. But what struck me most about her, at first sight, was the smile she gave me when she asked me if the seat was free. She sat down and started rummaging through her bag. She took out a pen and a notebook to take notes. Shortly afterwards he spoke to me: "Is this your first time at these meetings? Had I never noticed her before?". I said yes, it was the first time. She informed me that before the meeting on Moravia there had already been three: the first one on Pirandello, then one on Svevo and finally a meeting on Italo Calvino.
Throughout the conference she took notes in her notebook and occasionally gave me a look and a smile. At the end of the meeting, before leaving the hall, he greeted me and asked me: "Will you be there next Tuesday?" I said, "Yeah, I think so." She hesitated for a moment and then went on "How do you do, my name is Laura". "My name is Monica," I replied. "Well Monica then, see you next Tuesday" and she left the room without even giving me time to reply.
After that evening I often found myself thinking about Laura; something in her had fascinated me and I was eager to see her again. I wasn't even more interested in knowing who the author of the next meeting was. I would have come back anyway and, more than to listen to the conference, to see Laura again.
I prepared myself even more carefully than the previous week with the knowledge that I was doing it, mainly to please Laura. I arrived, as usual, well in advance: the room was almost deserted. I looked around; Laura was not there yet. I took my seat in the second row, in the exact same seat I had sat in the previous week. I took the seat next to mine with my bag. It was for Laura and I didn't want anyone else to sit in it. I waited impatiently for her arrival. The lecture was about to begin when I saw her come out the door leading into the room. She walked safely towards me and as she was close to me, she turned her precious smile to me and said" Good evening Monica, I thought I would not arrive in time. Can I sit next to you?" I answered her, happy to see her again. "Of course I kept the place for you." She had a fancy dress with the predominant green and red colours and light green sheer stockings. When she sat down I couldn't help but look at her legs again, so perfect. She took out of her bag a notebook and a pen to take notes. Then she turned to me again and gave me one of her beautiful smiles. In her every gesture there was instinctive elegance.
At the end of the meeting, Laura, unlike last week, did not leave immediately, but stopped to talk to me: "How nice is the meeting tonight? "Very much, Laura," I answered. "But even more interesting should be the meeting next Tuesday. Pier Paolo Pasolini is one of my favorite authors." I confessed to Laura that I had read very little about Pasolini and that I didn't know his works. She looked at me with a mixture of amazement and disbelief. Then she said to me: "Come one of these days to my house; I have many books by Pasolini. I can lend you some to read, if you want". That invitation caused a sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. I didn't really understand what was happening to me but Laura had the power to make me feel like a high school girl receiving her first invitation to go out with a classmate. I said, "Yeah, sure, I'd love to go." "I'll leave you my cell phone number Monica. Call me anytime and we'll arrange to meet." I wrote that number down in my phone book. Laura continued, "Give me a ring so I'll have your number in my memory and record it in my contacts." Then she added, "I have to go, Monica. Call me, okay?" I said, "Sure, Laura, I'll call you."
All the next day I was conflicted about whether or not to call Laura right away. I had a great desire to see her eyes again, to feel her presence next to me. But I was hesitant: would I really go to her house? And wasn't it better to wait a few days to make her not understand my anxiety and my impatience to meet her again? In the evening I tried to dial Laura's number several times but each time I stopped halfway through the number: what would I tell her? That I was looking forward to seeing her again? In the end I gave up calling her and went to bed. But I couldn't fall asleep; I was lying under the sheets for a long time thinking about Laura before sleep finally won over my thoughts.
The next day I took courage: I composed Laura's mobile phone number without thinking about it too much and waited for the answer. When I heard her answer "Hello" I almost lacked the breath and the courage to answer. I hesitated for a moment and said "Hello Laura, this is Monica. How are you? I was calling about those books by Pasolini." "Well - said Laura - why don't you come over tonight and I'll show them to you and offer you a coffee". He explained where he lived and gave me an appointment for after dinner.
And now what was I doing with all that sudden freedom? Where did I start living my new life? I turned on the computer and said to myself "I will start from my main interest and love: literature". Soon I found a series of meetings held on Tuesday evenings at the library in my city, Rimini. Reading and commenting on passages from some of the most important Italian storytellers of the twentieth century. Next Tuesday was already the fourth meeting on Alberto Moravia, the author I had loved since I was a girl. There, my life would start again from there, from that cycle of meetings.
For that evening I prepared an old dark linen dress; I hadn't worn it for more than five years, but in those years, my physique hadn't changed much and it still fit me perfectly: long just below the knees and with a not too provocative neckline, but enough to show the attack of my still thriving and pleasing breasts. I would have matched it with black tights and medium heeled shoes. Finally I would have completed it with a pearl necklace and earrings, a purple velvet handbag and a thin veil of makeup that would enhance the black of my eyes and the contour of my thin lips.
I arrived twenty minutes early and when I entered the room there were only a few people. I chose a seat in the second row, still completely empty. Waiting for the meeting to begin, I pulled out of my handbag "The Man Who Looks", one of Moravia's novels among my favorites, and sat in the chair reading a few random pages.
Soon a sexting woman in her thirties sat next to me. I immediately noticed her slender and slender figure, long legs wrapped in tight jeans that stood out her perfection, a light sweater that made me feel small breasts that almost, with the nipple, I wanted to pop out. A harmonious and overall very pleasant face: blonde with short hair, bright eyes of a light chaste, small nose and soft lips. But what struck me most about her, at first sight, was the smile she gave me when she asked me if the seat was free. She sat down and started rummaging through her bag. She took out a pen and a notebook to take notes. Shortly afterwards he spoke to me: "Is this your first time at these meetings? Had I never noticed her before?". I said yes, it was the first time. She informed me that before the meeting on Moravia there had already been three: the first one on Pirandello, then one on Svevo and finally a meeting on Italo Calvino.
Throughout the conference she took notes in her notebook and occasionally gave me a look and a smile. At the end of the meeting, before leaving the hall, he greeted me and asked me: "Will you be there next Tuesday?" I said, "Yeah, I think so." She hesitated for a moment and then went on "How do you do, my name is Laura". "My name is Monica," I replied. "Well Monica then, see you next Tuesday" and she left the room without even giving me time to reply.
After that evening I often found myself thinking about Laura; something in her had fascinated me and I was eager to see her again. I wasn't even more interested in knowing who the author of the next meeting was. I would have come back anyway and, more than to listen to the conference, to see Laura again.
I prepared myself even more carefully than the previous week with the knowledge that I was doing it, mainly to please Laura. I arrived, as usual, well in advance: the room was almost deserted. I looked around; Laura was not there yet. I took my seat in the second row, in the exact same seat I had sat in the previous week. I took the seat next to mine with my bag. It was for Laura and I didn't want anyone else to sit in it. I waited impatiently for her arrival. The lecture was about to begin when I saw her come out the door leading into the room. She walked safely towards me and as she was close to me, she turned her precious smile to me and said" Good evening Monica, I thought I would not arrive in time. Can I sit next to you?" I answered her, happy to see her again. "Of course I kept the place for you." She had a fancy dress with the predominant green and red colours and light green sheer stockings. When she sat down I couldn't help but look at her legs again, so perfect. She took out of her bag a notebook and a pen to take notes. Then she turned to me again and gave me one of her beautiful smiles. In her every gesture there was instinctive elegance.
At the end of the meeting, Laura, unlike last week, did not leave immediately, but stopped to talk to me: "How nice is the meeting tonight? "Very much, Laura," I answered. "But even more interesting should be the meeting next Tuesday. Pier Paolo Pasolini is one of my favorite authors." I confessed to Laura that I had read very little about Pasolini and that I didn't know his works. She looked at me with a mixture of amazement and disbelief. Then she said to me: "Come one of these days to my house; I have many books by Pasolini. I can lend you some to read, if you want". That invitation caused a sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. I didn't really understand what was happening to me but Laura had the power to make me feel like a high school girl receiving her first invitation to go out with a classmate. I said, "Yeah, sure, I'd love to go." "I'll leave you my cell phone number Monica. Call me anytime and we'll arrange to meet." I wrote that number down in my phone book. Laura continued, "Give me a ring so I'll have your number in my memory and record it in my contacts." Then she added, "I have to go, Monica. Call me, okay?" I said, "Sure, Laura, I'll call you."
All the next day I was conflicted about whether or not to call Laura right away. I had a great desire to see her eyes again, to feel her presence next to me. But I was hesitant: would I really go to her house? And wasn't it better to wait a few days to make her not understand my anxiety and my impatience to meet her again? In the evening I tried to dial Laura's number several times but each time I stopped halfway through the number: what would I tell her? That I was looking forward to seeing her again? In the end I gave up calling her and went to bed. But I couldn't fall asleep; I was lying under the sheets for a long time thinking about Laura before sleep finally won over my thoughts.
The next day I took courage: I composed Laura's mobile phone number without thinking about it too much and waited for the answer. When I heard her answer "Hello" I almost lacked the breath and the courage to answer. I hesitated for a moment and said "Hello Laura, this is Monica. How are you? I was calling about those books by Pasolini." "Well - said Laura - why don't you come over tonight and I'll show them to you and offer you a coffee". He explained where he lived and gave me an appointment for after dinner.
