It was very tempting to confide to Valentina that she had encountered the literature teacher at the Lost Paradise. Yet Marisa resisted it. She was used to telling everything to her friend, but this time she had scruples. In the way Marco had looked at her, Marisa captured something that she knew too well herself. Something that should be respected: susceptibility. The next day in class, every time the two exchanged a look, it was with complicity for one shared secret and curiosity for another unrevealed. Marisa tried to guess what hidden desire had led Marco to the store. He speculated the same about her.

They were reaching the end of October, and that Tuesday was a typical springtime rainy day, still irresolute amid the last breath of winter and the neighboring summer showers. After classes, as Marco drove along the street, he spotted a silhouette in a lilac dress walking on the sidewalk with bowed head. He rolled down the window pane, and thick drops spattered on his face when he called Marisa to offer a ride. She rushed to the Lexus in a mess of notebooks, handbag and clothes clinging to her body. Her relief for escaping the rain lasted just the time to become uneasiness: in the confines of the car, the window panes now grew foggy with steam and tension.

After the encounter at the Lost Paradise, after the veiled looks in the classroom, there they were squeezed in a metal box. Just the two of them. Suddenly embarrassed. They talked about the weather and Marisa complained that she had forgotten to bring an umbrella precisely that day. Marco turned the heat on and she muttered a thank you. The conversation dimmed out. The rain pattered on the car's silver-gray hood. Traffic dragged painfully.

"Did you do the vocational test?" Marco asked after a few minutes.

"No, I... forgot..."

It dawned on Marisa the extent of the apathy hidden inside her. In truth, she no longer cared about college or the future whatsoever. Since her father's death, she had already quit dance classes and the choir. As she couldn't quit school altogether, Marisa numbed herself with studying to forget life was meaningless. Her soul perched on a plum tree like Pierre Anthon, silently shouting that nothing mattered. Life was a parade of platitudes, wake up in the morning and brush teeth, say hi to the porter upon leaving building and upon returning to it, rejoice with a good piece of writing and despair with trigonometry equations, long for the future, get disappointed with the future, have meals, dress up for the weekend, sleep and wake up again, until the day waking up was no longer an option. And in the meantime, everything a person loved the most was diming out, until all that remained were empty hands.

The suffocated pain rose to surface. First a contraction in the chest, then the jolt in the throat and a burning sting in the eyes. She was there again. For the first time. Walking with her mother on the path paved with cement and dry leaves. They stop before a rectangle of fresh grass with a black granite tombstone. She reads in the inscription what she refuses to accept. The name and the dates. So that's it. From an entire life, all that's left. She'll never see her father again. Never again. The sky darkens, the pine trees bow in the wind, and the horns of cars on the street come from afar—from a world to which she no longer belongs. The mother hugs her in silence, bleakly. Marisa cries. She looks at the sad saints watching the graves and promising eternal bliss. She's angry. Angry at life for robbing her of a most loved one and then continuing without him, angry at the father who had left her behind, angry at herself for not being able to save him. Angry. She swears not to shed another tear.

She almost kept her word.

Marco grew disconcerted when he saw her wipe away a tortuous teardrop on her face. He tightened his grip on the wheel as he glanced sideways at Marisa. Better to keep quiet so not to make her feel uneasy. She was biting her lip, restraining herself. He relaxed... but soon she sobbed and that tear evolved to a strident weeping. Marco parked in the first available space.

"What happened, Marisa?"

She stammered incoherent things—the nothingness, the stone saints mocking her pain, the plum tree and her feet dangling in the void. Uncertain of how to react, he put his arm on the seat back rest, started an incomplete gesture and, at last, laid one hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, Marisa, easy... easy..."

"Sorry ..." She wiped her face with the back of her hand and attempted an awkward smile. Weeping brought relief and also emptiness. She felt hollow, a ragdoll without stuffing in a struggle to stand. "It's nothing. I think I'm just nervous with the coming college admission."

Marisa had a beautiful face, Marco noted, even with the sad smile... He noticed the scent emanating from her skin (Vetiver?) and a birthmark half hidden on the nape of her neck—a small grayish shape that looked like a diadem. Marco studied her turgid gaze, the pomegranate on the swollen lips, the pale face contrasting with hair darkened by rain. He thought of a sugar clump dissolving in water.

What could he do to comfort her? Listen, or try to cheer her up, or... Without thinking, Marco leaned over to kiss Marisa on the cheek, and in that instant she turned to face him. His lips almost touched hers. They exchanged an uncertain look—she was fighting a sudden quiver, he was backing off in equal surprise.

"Do you want to talk?" Marco quickly collected himself and, since she made a negative gesture, insisted: "Are you sure...? Then I'm going to take you home."

"Please, no..." She became agitated. "I don't want my mother to see me like this. Can I stay with you for a little while?"

Marco hesitated. He needed to go home. Marisa assured him that he could take care of his matters and she would study in the meantime. Given her commotion Marco agreed, and Marisa called the mother to let her know she was having lunch with a friend. On their way to his apartment, the mute tension sneaked in between them again. They took the elevator in silence, pretending to watch the floor indicator panel. Tension brushed against Marisa. Marisa brushed herself against Marco. Marco did not avoid contact.

When the two entered his apartment, Marisa stood by the door. The property, old and spacious, had high ceilings, varnished parquet flooring and plaster cornices. She absorbed every single detail, trying to identify Marco's personality there. He obviously liked orchids: three vases adorned the coffee table, with purple, yellow and blue flowers. What drew her attention, however, was the empty spaces. The furniture was scarce and—except for some normal wear and tear—almost impersonal, as if it had been transplanted there straight from a store display.

A set of brown leather sofas and armchairs gravitated around the coffee table designed with reclaimed wood. A pair of side tables carried a pair of white-shaded lamps. In one corner, a stainless steel floor lamp tried in vain to break the hard symmetry of the furniture. The few objects there, however, told stories that instigated Marisa's imagination: the small bronze sculpture curled up like a question mark, the green Murano vase, a framed picture: Marco, a smile and the Golden Gate Bridge floating in the fog. And there were also the jazz albums inhabiting the low rack spread across an entire wall. Hundreds of albums split into CDs, LPs and rare 33 RPM editions.

It was interesting to watch Marco there, in his kingdom. In black jeans and dark-gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he followed the route between the rack and the hallway with an ease that suggested habit: first he turned the sound system on, then he headed for the office to drop his briefcase. Marisa, in the meantime, distracted herself investigating the music collection. John Coltrane, Miles Davis, an entire section dedicated to Ella Fitzgerald, Herbie Hancock, Bessie Smith... and classical composers too, such as Satie, Debussy, Chopin, Bártok... On the radio, the delicate melody by Zero 7 was the backdrop for verses about crossed-star lovers and a storm at sea.

Thunder blossoms above our heads

Great, hollow, bell-like flowers

Rumbling in the wind

Stretching clappers to strike our ears

Marco reappeared in the hallway and told Marisa to leave her things on the coffee table while he fetched a towel for her not to get cold. She thanked him and halted halfway to the table once she noticed the state of her notebook.

"I can't believe... the rain stained my notes..."

"Big damage?" Marco turned around and came to stand before Marisa.

"More or less. The top of it is wet but I guess I can still read it," she replied, examining the pages.

He offered to leave it to dry in the laundry area and, as he spoke, Marco reached out for the notebook. It was the first time they stood that close. There were shapes and colors and warmth. Presence. A fragrance of cologne with woody notes. Vetiver mixed with rain. His skin, feverish like arid land. Hers, glimmering with translucent droplets that rolled from her hair to her top, shoulders, arms. Their hands touched and their eyes met in a pause. And then, very gently, Marco's gaze grazed Marisa's lips. He grazed the full curve of ripe fruit with his eyes and then with his mouth, nibbling on the lip, tasting it on the tip of his tongue. Marisa nestled herself on him and mirrored his movements. She buried her fingers in the fine, soft locks of Marco's hair, felt with a hint of vertigo the fabric of the shirt hiding his flesh. She had longed so much for that moment, that now her legs faltered...

Full-lipped flowers

Bitten by the sun

Bleeding rain

Dripping rain like golden honey

The books cascaded to the floor, and Marco pulled her closer, his arms adjusting to her figure with such ease that it surprised him. His body had its own reason Something stirred deep down inside, something that had been restrained and now just broke the barrier... He didn't know why Marisa disarmed him that way. Her kiss transmitted the sweetness of abandon that he desperately wanted to reciprocate. His hesitant, thirsty mouth expressed the dilemma between great doubt and even greater certainty. He froze on a sudden. That was wrong. She was frail, and he no longer knew what he was doing. Marco forced himself to back off as his gaze registered with crystalline clarity Marisa's face standing out amid a smudge— the bookcase, the window, the curtain, the vortex of grey sky.

"I'm sorry... Really sorry," he said in a hoarse voice, and looked away. "I'm thirsty. Do you want some water?"

Marisa nodded, her legs weak again. His taste lingered in her mouth and poured into her whole body. After a moment, she followed him at a numb pace.

Marco burst into the retro-style kitchen with white tiles and black Formica furniture. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed the water bottle and, as he filled two glasses, the water almost overflowed from one of them. Marisa stood at the door and waited, Marco turned around with a startle as he laid the bottle on the counter. In a reflex, he offered her a chair at the head of the six-seat table.

After handing her a glass, Marco took the chair on the opposite end. When he spoke again, his voice sounded controlled—almost natural.

"Do you have any exams this week, Marisa?"

"Yes, literature. Have you forgotten about it?"

He smiled awkwardly, and she smiled too.

"Uh... of course... I mean, do you have an exam in any other subject?"

No, fortunately she didn't. It seemed she had exams all the time in that school. She was going crazy with studying. It was school in the morning, college admission classes in the afternoon and preparation for exams in the evening. There were days when she resembled a sleepwalker and needed buckets of coffee to keep herself awake. Before that year, she didn't even like coffee...

Marisa shushed, aware of her own nervousness. It had been a mistake to insist in tagging along with Marco. He felt uneasy, and she didn't intend to impose her presence there any longer. She left her glass untouched on the table and stood up.

"I'd better be going..."

"I'll give you a ride." He rose in such haste that the chair protested with an eloquent squeal.

Marisa insisted she didn't want to disturb him, she could take a taxi. Marco insisted it was no trouble at all. The two returned to the living room and he helped her collect the text books from the floor. They barely looked at each other. Marisa balanced the books in one arm and hung her purse over the other while they headed for the door. Marco turned the key and laid one hand on the knob, pausing ever so slightly.

She would never know what got her in that instant: watching him hesitate, she stroked his face. And with the gesture Marisa's irises pulsed, turned into liquid and haze. In that moment there was him. Only him. 

"Don't worry, Marco. I wanted that too..."

The expression he gave in return was indecipherable. His eyebrows remained still but the eyes stirred with a slight tremor. His lips, the upper with its well-drawn shape and the bottom fuller, parted in a reflex as he sucked in the air. One second. Two. Three. His hand released the doorknob ripping the air, circling Marisa's nape, bringing her closer. 

Marco sought her mouth with sudden voraciousness. The kiss was intense, then tender, then urgent... The books fell again to the floor, and the purse soon joined them. Marisa fastened her hands around his neck, reciprocating with fervor. Marco buried his face in her damp hair, breathed in its perfume, his eyelids half-closed, an odd intoxication. Inching back, he looked at Marisa.

She intertwined her fingers with his and spoke to him with one gaze. He replied.

That was how it all began.

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I love this chapter, it's so... romantic! I love first kisses... first times...

Now on with the story... ;-)