Read Online Blood Orange by Drusilla Campbell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Drusilla Campbell
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find a taxi.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
In less than a day, this city has seduced me.
She woke up feeling headachy and slightly nauseated but ignored the symptoms, blaming jet lag and too much wine the night
before. This was the day Micah was taking her to the Uffizi.
They walked past the tourists waiting in line and entered the
gallery by a side door because Micah knew the right people. They
made their way backward through the gift shop to the marble stairway where the guard waved them through with more jock body language. Her stomach dipped as they entered the first rooms, the
walls covered with iconic art in blue and gold and umber dating
back to the early centuries of the second millennium.
After the third room she went into the long passageway and sat
on a bench, dropping her head between her knees.
“I’m going to be sick.” She looked around for a sign directing
her to the rest rooms.
Micah blinked and pointed over her shoulder, through the window and across the colonnade where they had walked the night before and into the corner of the gallery farthest from where they were
standing.
It was more than half a mile away.
When it was all over and she sat in an easy chair in Micah’s apartment wrapped in a duvet, Dana was able to laugh as Micah described in graphic detail how much worse it might have been. True,
she had not made it all the way to the rest rooms, but at least she
had gotten as far as the stairs leading down to them. And the line
could have been worse. In the summertime there might have been
fifty people staring at her while she threw up.
They talked of art and life, and Micah fed her dry crackers and
soda water. As the afternoon waned, the light streaming through the
tall, uncurtained windows of the palazzo changed from white to yellow to red-orange. Across the river, the bricks of Florence, absorbing the light, turned to rose gold. The room filled with long shadows
and the dank smell of the river. Dana yawned and closed her eyes.
She sat up. “Do you have something I can wear back to the
hotel? I need a nap.”
“Sleep here,” he said. “Later we can go out again. Nothing starts
in Florence until after ten anyway. On the other side of town there’s
a jazz club. You’ll like it.”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Micah. You have a life-“
“Is that how you see me? As a babysitter?”
“What about clothes?”
“Give me your key. I’ll go back to the hotel while you sleep.”
His back was to the window; the falling sun outlined him like gold encircling a medieval icon. She held her breath. He turned,
and they looked into each other’s eyes. He held out his hand, then
led her to his bed.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She was in a threehundred-year-old palazzo owned by an Italian princess. She had
been transported to a fairy-tale world, and she did not once think of
David and Bailey or stop to ask if this was the way normal people
behaved. In the Kingdom of Florence none of the old rules applied.
Later, she recalled what Lexy had once said about life being full of
crossroad moments, opportunities taken or lost forever.
Late that night, after jazz and slow dancing, he leaned her
against a crumbling garden wall draped in wisteria, unzipped her
Levi’s, and entered her with his fingers. She cried in the dark from
the thrill of it. Night and the city sounds, a few feet away the voices
of men and women coming out of the club where they had been
moments before. And Dana impaled on her lover’s hand, crying because she had never had an orgasm like that, never knew it was possible.
She inhabited a small world that week. In the mornings Micah
brought her hot chocolate and a croissant from the coffee bar at the
corner. They made love amid the crumbs and might not eat again
until dinner; but she felt full all the time. In mirrors and shop windows she saw the difference in herself, a look of slightly blurred and
puffed fatigue, a languor
“Let’s walk,” she said.
In less than a day, this city has seduced me.
She woke up feeling headachy and slightly nauseated but ignored the symptoms, blaming jet lag and too much wine the night
before. This was the day Micah was taking her to the Uffizi.
They walked past the tourists waiting in line and entered the
gallery by a side door because Micah knew the right people. They
made their way backward through the gift shop to the marble stairway where the guard waved them through with more jock body language. Her stomach dipped as they entered the first rooms, the
walls covered with iconic art in blue and gold and umber dating
back to the early centuries of the second millennium.
After the third room she went into the long passageway and sat
on a bench, dropping her head between her knees.
“I’m going to be sick.” She looked around for a sign directing
her to the rest rooms.
Micah blinked and pointed over her shoulder, through the window and across the colonnade where they had walked the night before and into the corner of the gallery farthest from where they were
standing.
It was more than half a mile away.
When it was all over and she sat in an easy chair in Micah’s apartment wrapped in a duvet, Dana was able to laugh as Micah described in graphic detail how much worse it might have been. True,
she had not made it all the way to the rest rooms, but at least she
had gotten as far as the stairs leading down to them. And the line
could have been worse. In the summertime there might have been
fifty people staring at her while she threw up.
They talked of art and life, and Micah fed her dry crackers and
soda water. As the afternoon waned, the light streaming through the
tall, uncurtained windows of the palazzo changed from white to yellow to red-orange. Across the river, the bricks of Florence, absorbing the light, turned to rose gold. The room filled with long shadows
and the dank smell of the river. Dana yawned and closed her eyes.
She sat up. “Do you have something I can wear back to the
hotel? I need a nap.”
“Sleep here,” he said. “Later we can go out again. Nothing starts
in Florence until after ten anyway. On the other side of town there’s
a jazz club. You’ll like it.”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Micah. You have a life-“
“Is that how you see me? As a babysitter?”
“What about clothes?”
“Give me your key. I’ll go back to the hotel while you sleep.”
His back was to the window; the falling sun outlined him like gold encircling a medieval icon. She held her breath. He turned,
and they looked into each other’s eyes. He held out his hand, then
led her to his bed.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She was in a threehundred-year-old palazzo owned by an Italian princess. She had
been transported to a fairy-tale world, and she did not once think of
David and Bailey or stop to ask if this was the way normal people
behaved. In the Kingdom of Florence none of the old rules applied.
Later, she recalled what Lexy had once said about life being full of
crossroad moments, opportunities taken or lost forever.
Late that night, after jazz and slow dancing, he leaned her
against a crumbling garden wall draped in wisteria, unzipped her
Levi’s, and entered her with his fingers. She cried in the dark from
the thrill of it. Night and the city sounds, a few feet away the voices
of men and women coming out of the club where they had been
moments before. And Dana impaled on her lover’s hand, crying because she had never had an orgasm like that, never knew it was possible.
She inhabited a small world that week. In the mornings Micah
brought her hot chocolate and a croissant from the coffee bar at the
corner. They made love amid the crumbs and might not eat again
until dinner; but she felt full all the time. In mirrors and shop windows she saw the difference in herself, a look of slightly blurred and
puffed fatigue, a languor
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