“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”
He looks at me. His eyes are dark, deep, like the depths of the tropical forests in inky nights when the moon never shows.
I bite my lip.
“Oh, no, but someday I would love to live here for an entire summer.”
“And what would you do?”
“I will walk every night in Piazza San Marco, at that very moment when the silence becomes so permeable that your steps can be heard from the moon. I will look for a new love in the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival: changing mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain. Every morning I will mix secret essences of perfumes, seeking for the one that could revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. That essence that could remind me of me, recreate me. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic sea; my body shivering, my soul revived. Later I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”
I stop. His eyes are engulfed by passion, his dark hair touched by a mellow breeze.
In a flash, the sound of church bells tears apart the diaphanous, moist air.
“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”
“I am not going to parties anymore.”
“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”
For a moment he looks flabbergasted. Then his lips boldly try to bite into mine. In a flash, I avoid them.
For the Daily Post prompt: Recreate