«a maggio devo andare lontano / e il pericolo corre lungo i binari»
(«May I am to go far away / and danger runs on rail»)
– Lo Stato Sociale, Quello che le donne dicono

It’s hot, I cannot sleep, and you snore half-awake.
I toss to and fro about this weary bed¹ (whatever space you give me), eventually I give in to insomnia and I think. I think of what to do this summer, of how hot your hand on my side is, of a song by Lo Stato Sociale… You’ve stopped snoring, you breath is the only cool thing in this room, and yet the window is open.


November seventh twenty-fourteen, I put on the lab coat, you tap my shoulder, the right one.

«I don’t have a lab partner»
«You do now»
You are confused.
Finally you understand.

(Fast forward)

I cannot name the experiment, maybe a titration, biochem?; we talk about Supernatural, Castiel, Dean/Cas, and who knows what else. I invite you to lunch (last week with that other girl it did not work), but you say no and offer me lunch at yours.

(Fast forward)

Frozen food in the oven, you burn the chips, «it never happened to me», apologetic.
Your room, you show me a comedian’s video about being a tourist in Italy, I am not laughing, you feel awkward.
It’s getting late, it’s now or never:

«I like you»
«I like you too»
«No, I mean like like like»
Awkward silence.

It is going to be days before I understand I have a chance, we text whilst I watch Les Misérables. You hate musicals (I don’t know it yet).

It’s one forty-seven in the morning, I am done writing this, and wonder whether tomorrow you will tell me I can publish it. I’ll have to translate it from Italian, we’ll see…

And now you are snoring again.

¹ Ludovico Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, Canto XXIII (Transl. W.S. Rose): «When he can give the rein to raging woe, / Alone, by other’s presence unreprest, / From his full eyes the tears descending flow, / In a wide stream, and flood his troubled breast. / ’Mid sob and groan, he tosses to and fro / About his weary bed, in search of rest; / And vainly shifting, harder than a rock / And sharper than a nettle found its flock.»


All of this was not fiction, also you are very welcome, I know you could never live without me quoting some 16th century Italian poem.

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