When the morning comes

4 | the first bottle

2002 Amarone della Valpolicella

My dearest Zev.

Freshman year, University, the camping trip. That's where we met. When I think back, the only thing I can do is grin a lopsided smile like yours. Papà was asked to cook for the freshmen and professors on that trip and since my mother was out of town, my brothers in college, he decided to take me on that trip too. I remember how I had scolded him, saying I didn't want to be the only senior, ready to graduate from high school if I had to walk in between the freshmen students all the time. Not to forget to mention that a year before, most students had been the seniors at my school. I knew them. They would most likely recognise me. When Papà would tell me 'Aurora, you have no choice.' I knew I truly didn't have a choice. I packed, didn't talk to Papà for the whole ride and disappeared into our wooden mobile home right away, cursing in Italian. Papà crossed himself, eyes looking up. "Prenditi cura di mia figlia empia." No, I won't let you use translate. That feature is ripped out of its context. Would probably tell you that Papà slaughtered me. Which is, in a way, relevant and understandable. It meant that he prayed to God to take care of his unholy daughter. I remember seeing you first, but I wasn't interested. Was just annoyed that you kept looking at me. Nothing personal- I just wasn't having it. And as Papà always used to sing; How do you solve a problem like Aurora's; he was right. It was when they had set up the campfire. We were there only for the food, but the professors and Papà insisted and forced me to sit with you all. I'd be getting a taste of what university would be like. Great, I thought. Didn't even want to go to university. Arms crossed over my chest, my face probably screaming that I did not want anyone to talk to me. I've always wondered if that was the reason why you never uttered a word to me first. You were seated across me. Elbows on your knees, eyes staring at me from above the flames. I had only looked back at you once or twice, wondered what you wanted. Didn't know your name, neither your age. To be honest, I'd forgotten about you the next day, because when my eyes had met Brendan's ones, the guy who had done nothing but begged for my attention at high school, I'd rolled mine and got even more frustrated. The next day, you were all out for activities, I was helping Papà cook. Lasagne Bolognese. Then I sipped on wine. Papà never minded it when I drank wine. Part of my roots, he'd say. Just didn't want me to do it when you guys were around. Went to the place Papà and me slept, and found a neatly folded piece of paper on my pillow. Glancing at the window, I knew someone had slipped it through there. I opened it. The words were neatly written, I was impressed because all the handwritings of boy's I'd ever read were similar with the Japanese language. Or the Arabic. Or the Hebrew. Unreadable, in any way. You must remember what was written on there.

'Toilet building, 2 am?'

"Bastardo." Bastard. My answer was no. And I'd make sure to let him know.

It was night. During the day I'd picked up that Brendan slept in the yellow tent. Didn't know who his 'roommate' was for the trip being, but I couldn't care less. "Bastardo! No, no it will always be no!" I yelled, shaking and zipping open the tent.

You were there, too, sleeping in a grey hoodie with the hood messily placed onto your black, sleep disheveled hair. I woke you, you looked up at me with questionable eyes. I'd ignored you, shook Brendan awake and cursed at him in Italian. "How many times do I have to say no, still?"

Brendan gave me a confused look, maybe that's when it hit me. "Chill, Aurora. I didn't do anything. What's that, that you're holding?"

"The letter you wrote." I insisted, growing confused and anxious. Yes, you had looked at me. But I didn't expect you to actually want something from me.

"I didn't write that. Go back to sleep, crazy girl. I'm over you, if you didn't pick up on that yet."

"Then who wrote it?!"