Art Deco {Cherry Wine Sequel}

one

It is so easy-too easy-to romanticize the past, to paint it all with the same rose coloured brush. Everything becomes beautiful and soft, the hard edged-memories worn away. Nostalgia is a dirty little liar. It makes fools of us all.  The day I woke up, the world became too bright, too loud.

I caught my first glimpse of Venice from the air. The ocean was so shallow and green that I could see the shadow of the plane running like a black ribbon on the seafloor. The islands and canals presented like a broken pattern of children's toys, poorly put together, but dazzling nonetheless.

The smell of the ocean hit us as soon as we stepped off the plane from New York. It had been the third in a series of progressively longer flights. I hadn't been conscious for them all. I couldn't remember even leaving the hospital. My throat still ached from the tubes. Every so often, Benji caught my hand, giving it a squeeze. It made my nerves stop jangling for that one second.

Neither of us were, on technical terms, wanted. The FBI had been keeping an eye out for both of us, hoping we would lead them to Lex. Benji assured me that we were leading them in a circle.  At every airport, every border, we used new passports, new names. The FBI thought Ruth Luthor was on her way to Canada to visit a non-existent aunt . They thought Benji was on his way to London for a summit on climate change.

It had been barely seventy-two hours since I had woken up, and I was still dazed by everything that had happened. Benji wouldn't tell me where we were going, or why he had snuck me out of the hospital the second the nurses had given me the cognitive all-clear. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I worried this was another dream, another one of the realities my brain had made for me. It had been so hard to tell them apart.

A plane was waiting for us on the other end of the Marco Polo tarmac, set apart from the tourist jets. The pilot was leaning against the door, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Benji exchanged a few words in rapid-fire Italian, and handed the man a roll of euros.
I breathed the briny air in deeply, trying to ignore the stagnant jet fuel and tobacco that permeated the air.

"This is her?" The pilot looked down at me. "She looks half-dead."

"We're paying you to fly, not for your commentary." Benji snapped.

The plane was small, a six seater. The pilot lowered a set of stairs, kicking them into place with one boot. Benji helped me up them, all but carrying me into the tiny cabin. He knelt in front of me, and pulled a length of blue velvet from his jacket pocket. I swallowed hard, tears threatening. Benji had warned me-from Venice, I would be blind. It was for my own protection, but it left me feeling more vulnerable than ever. I couldn't walk, couldn't remember the past four months, and now I wouldn't be able to see. I wanted to be home, with Lex, not in some foreign airport, blinded and in some junky airplane.

"Please don't." I begged, grabbing his wrists.

Benji looked heartbroken. "I have to, babe." He said. "I promise, we'll be there soon, and then I can take it off."

"You promise?"

Benji nodded, and I lowered my hands. The cloth was satiny smooth. Benji knotted it behind my head. "Don't take it off, or I'll bind your hands." His voice was gentle, but the message was not.

The plane sputtered as it took of down the Marco Polo runway, and for a stomach-jolting second, I worried we wouldn't get into the air. The pilot hummed over the sound of his engines. I tried not to panic.  I thought of every good memory I had of Lex. They had been the only things that had kept me from whacking Benji upside the head on our travels. He had been so kind, but there was only so much fussing I could take.

The idea of Lex alone on a boat for months had broken my heart over and over. Had he thought I was dead? I knew what grief could do to a person, but I trusted Lex with my entire being.