The “tebro-wifi” signal in my living room taunts me,
waving the ease of translators and Wikipedia just out of my reach. I rise
early, despite the cold seeping from the stone floor into my bare feet, despite
the way my left lower back wheezes. I shed the remnants of a dream in which I
destroy my friend’s impending marriage, the scraped-eyes feeling of waking up
alone following me through my breakfast of half a chilled Granny Smith. My jaw
aches. I’ve been grinding my teeth in my sleep again.
The smell of my leather jacket and the empty fireplace
bring to mind camping with my family as I exit my apartment and round the
corner, black ballet flats failing to keep the cobblestones from my soles.
Outside the door to Tebro is the slender stone statue, androgynous, faceless,
and entirely too real in the night when the wine clouds me and the streetlights
beckon. Beside the door, the first black man I have seen in Spoleto jingles a
palm full of change I am only just starting to comprehend.
Tebro is lit, and I spy a barista behind the counter of
perfect pastries glazed like jewels, but when I pull, the door sticks. Maybe
they are still preparing to open. I turn to leave and the homeless man babbles
something in a language I have not yet begun to understand. He shakes his head,
and I feel my neck warm. The door is push.
“Grazie,” I stutter. At the coutner, I order a cappuccino
and ask for the password. “Privato,” says the barista with curly black hair.
Disappointed, I try to say good morning to the balding man beside me. He does
not respond, merely stares, foam peeking from the corner of his drooping lips.
When I leave, I drop .70 centesimi into the homeless man’s
open palm. “Grazie, grazie,” he calls, white teeth splitting his face, a shaft
of sunlight falling across the slender statue.
It's great writing like this that reaffirms my belief in you as one of the greatest writers I personally know. The imagery in this entry is rich and your word choice is spectacular. I'm particularly fond of, "the way my lower back wheezes." Having a "wheezy back" in the morning is never fun and the way you drowsily go about your morning is wonderfully illustrated. Also, let me say that statue is horrifying when I'm drunk or tipsy and I come up the set of stairs in front of it or come around the corner behind it and it stares at me like a silent sentinel. The night it moves or disappears I'm taking the next train to another town. The situation with the beggar is handled quite well, both in presenting it to the reader and what you actually did. "Pastries glazed like jewels," not only gives me a vivid vision but is also something I would not think to use to describe pastries that cost less than two euro. I'm also able to conjure a clear image of every person you meet, from the black beggar, to the surly old man, to the curly haired barista. When you end the entry with another reference to the statue (I see what you did with the slender) it's an eerie reminder that it's always there, silently watching over that small section of town.
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