RED: A Love Story [Featured List]

Part 1: White 13 - There won't be roses

Blue and black the neon flickered across the street. Tremulous blue, then black with the ghostly outline of the letters composing the establishment's name. From time to time, some letters would faint amid the blue flash. Kiss Club... Kiss Club... K ss Club... Kiss Club... K ss Cl b... With the cell phone clutched in her hand, Marisa stared at the neon sign, immobile like a waxen statue. She heard Marco saying goodbye to the waitress and quickly returned the phone to the table. In a few instants, Marco sauntered out the bar with a carefree Sunday demeanor: confident strides, loose arms, a smirk—the alpha male in leisure mode, as Marisa noted sourly.

"Shall we go then?" He grabbed the cell phone and, noticing her insistent gaze, worried: "Everything okay? You look pale."

"It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She shrugged and stood up. Her brain was spinning and spinning and spinning.

Marco put his arm around her shoulders and they went for a promenade in a nearby square, where a flower market was open until late. On a sudden he halted. He turned to Marisa, ran one hand on her hair and contemplated her in silence, sensing her turmoil. His eyes were serious under the thick cape of eyelashes, and when they narrowed like that they acquired an almond shape, an almost invisible crease on the corner while another, deeper, appeared between the brows—a small gash on the serenity of his forehead. His jaw first clenched, then his mouth half-opened to say something to her. Without being aware Marisa stilled her breath, and waited. The words never came.

Marco blocked the lamppost light, bathing her face in shadow and her lips in kisses. Soft, brief. Until he threaded his fingers in her hair and lingered to explore her mouth with an intimacy that made Marisa melt. The kiss always soft but now slow in each recess, on the tip of the tongue and further in. She kept reluctant hands on his shoulders, while he pressed the small of her back and brought her closer. The breeze surrounded them with the scent of flowers, and from an apartment window crept a drowsy song from the fifties in the voice of Ruth Brown: she was asking if she should let herself go in his direction... was his love strong enough for her own protection? And the chorus replied: I don't know, I don't know... I don't know, I don't know...

Marisa extricated herself from Marco's arms, feigning interest in the roses and keeping tabs on him from the corner of her eye. For a moment they admired the arrangements on the shelves of half a dozen booths along the sidewalk. Flowers with all colors of the day, from gold at dawn to blood at dusk. Flowers as blue as the wings of a bird tinted by the night. On an impulse, Marco picked up a bouquet of red roses. They were Colombian, larger and more fragrant than ordinary roses. With no thorns.

"Do you like them, Mari?"

"Very pretty."

"They're for you."

Marisa hesitated and shook her head as her disquiet increased. Why that whim now? Marco had never given her flowers precisely because they were impossible to hide. Maybe he felt guilty and was trying to relieve his own conscience. Maybe.

"Thanks, but my mom will get suspicious if I show up with them."

"You can leave them in my apartment. They'll always be yours."

"Will they?"

"Of course." He half-smiled, frowning.

"Better not."

'Why?"

"They're gonna wither, that's why," Marisa replied curtly.

Taken aback by her tone, Marco returned the flowers to the stand with a gesture of frustration. He studied her face, reaching for her hand. Marisa retreated rigidly, unable to hinder her thoughts.