Elio, Oliver, Elio

Chapter 1: Impact

"Oliver," a firm voice spoke centimetres from my ear, and echoed through the room.

I can feel him, now, palming his way up my back and letting those eyes, the same eyes that stared at me a little too gently this morning while Mafalda set the table, travel up and down my body that was completely at his disposal.

"Elio,"

My mouth plead out my own name in response to the man I'm faced with, and I couldn't seem to shut it.

Then, just as Oliver layed a kiss upon my jaw, I realised. Today is his wedding. A wedding back in the states, that I'd been invited to many months ago. I realised that this Oliver is not my Oliver, but a product of my dreams that was just too damn real.

Not real enough to take away the dull ache in my stomach, but real enough to remind me of the few nights we'd spend in this bed. Not the bed in my dreams, the one that was slowly fading, but the bed I'd tried to fix for hours to make the bedding and placement look identical to the way Oliver had arranged it on his first day in Italy.

I reached for the man simulated by my selfishness and want but he was no longer there, only a wooden headboard and a pair of swim trunks he'd owned before leaving them out of his suitcase by mistake. I kept them close now, wore them from time to time, and slept with them along with the shirt he left me long ago.

Today is the day, the day that the man I still somehow love is getting married in America. I pressed a hand to my stomach and felt the familiar uneasy signal telling me to cry until Mafalda rang the bell calling me down for breakfast.

Breakfast still felt cold without his presence. The basket of eggs in front of me only reminds me of Oliver's big appetite in the mornings, and how my mother would try and get him to eat more and more every day. I could hear his voice now, politely yet jokingly letting her down in that beautiful "movie-star" voice.

"I know myself." He'd say. "If I have a second, I'll have a third, a fourth, and more."

The day after, on that hill, he kissed me; he spoke those same three words in reference to our affair. Oliver had said that he wanted to be "good". I'm glad that after our sleepless nights here he's finally getting what he wanted.

I picked at my food and my mother loomed over me.

"Qu'est ce qui ne va pas avec ça?" She spoke quickly and sharply with just the right amount of motherly warmth, running her hand up my back and on my shoulders while the other hand loosely held her favourite brand of cigarette.

"Non, c'est bon. Je suis désolé," I was quick to reply, as Mafalda looked up from clearing the table. She'd asked me if there was something wrong with my food, and of course, there was nothing wrong with the food. There was something wrong with me.

No sooner than I'd put down my fork, I heard the distant ring of our house phone and jumped up, almost knocking my chair back and shouting, "Excuse me, please," so loudly that Anchise seemed surprised. I want to apologize, but I need any kind of distraction from today, and a distraction from those god damned eggs.

I sat down next the the phone and crossed an ankle over my thigh, brushing off pollen from the sole of my foot and reaching with my other hand to answer the call. Before I can utter more than half a greeting, an almost frightened voice blurts out my name and my lungs feel like they're collapsing.

The voice speaks again.

"Elio, are you there? Elio,"

I am frozen. The voice stops, and i can hear a faint breathing, almost panting, before I force myself to speak.

"Oliver."