Ruined for Billy Joel

Friday Flash #6 monthly prompt ‘Leaving an Italian restaurant’ based on this picture

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He had an appartamento near the docks where he worked as a stivatore, run by the Mafia, slipping cargo past customs, cigarettes and girls from the Balkans. He met her there, an investigatore rescuing slaves, ben educato, he illiterate, but sly. The gutters defined him, grab what you can before it washes downstream. Muscled the waterfront, never saw anything kept his banconota in battered olive oil tins. She sought him out. Informazioni per favore. sì. In exchange, what he wanted. Her posteriore. Laughter, she left him, always leaving and coming back for more. Over the table, plates pushed aside. Thick leather pulled from loops, doubled and swung. Always raised buttocks meeting lash, driving and parted: a yowling aria, neighbors silenzio! Sometimes inside, after the spanking. Belt, hand. Red welts and blue bruises. Orgasmo he’d eat sometimes, southern dishes, fiery passione before frozen ghiaccio stole his breath. Slipped away, dirty dishes, wine dripping, dripping spreading: Vergine Maria in vino! Miracolo! Miracolo! He would be famous. No, it is only Mussolini. It was upside down hanging meat. Last time beating leaving for Napoli, Vesuvius he was. She leaves, his camera too late, striding away, always away never his, no amore, no Romeo. She was never his, only used for her desires, the contani spilling from olive oil tins, gifts always the gifts, never her pulsing heart. If she had one at all. So he’s here, to forget, our Italian restaurant, a bottle of red, a bottle of white…

He hated that song. Chianti bottle empty even turned upside down, drops hovering above white linen bleeding, always bleeding the craving to pulverize silica and why the stupid candles? What’s with the fucking candles!? Do you see her? The sepia legs once enveloped, mounted and rode pink glistening notes shattering goblets that once held pale nectar drunk toasts of forever. Took the image, here on the threshold, granite steps when ascended pesto and garlic, men in dark silk suits women: don’t forget the women. Sweeping dress a gift, bag gift, bracelet gift, shoes a gift, gift, gift! Always giving… always weeping. She was spaghetti alle vongole, a hot sirocco, sand abrading flesh, slithering and writhing, doused with rosé; she liked rosé the color of her bottom after, always after the session. Walked away, every… single…time she walked away! Bicep, you see? Feel. Hard, strong, hand of steel. He hated that song. She’d call, weeks months, she’d always call, again, another round. Drop the bag, the bracelets, slip the shoes, dress flung to floor, pulsed artery in neck. Empty, even upside down, denim thighs bulging lifting bales of Egyptian cotton watered by Hapi: empty as hand turned pale Riesling to purple Burgundy. She loved wine, spanking… she walked away. Used, recycled glass, maybe this one: empty Chianti bleeding on white linen. She wanted – craved – desired – used by laborer, sweaty, strong you doubt? Took that image, on the wall. Momento last time. Cutting shards, fingers tease print from frame. Mine, always mine. Polizia here, lire soak up the blood.

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6 Comments

  1. Authors note: I wrote this is a single stream, finishing the second paragraph and then writing the first. The smells, the sounds, the passions of an unequal affair and the destruction of love. Yet, we are powerless to resist when the bottom rises to meet the descending hand. Remember… always remember.

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  2. thank you for submitting to friday flash!!!

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  3. wow…this has all the ‘feel’ of Italy….Sicily. I recently read “The Italians”, 1964 edition….and this description of Mussolini came through strong. Great, descriptive writing here.

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