On Friday afternoon I drove the two of us to Castelnuovo. I tried not to show it, but the time spent in the narrow alleys of the old town was making my heart melt with joy. Each stop on our road that day was like a still frame composed of smells, textures, sounds, gusts of wind, transcribing themself into a string of vivid memories. The coarse pavement massaging the soles of our feet, the stone walls keeping us in their cold embrace, the scent of honeysuckle climbing up the gates. All those little things I wouldn't even notice on a usual summer afternoon were suddenly making me happy. Was it the weather? Was it the change of surroundings? Was it the warmth of Marcel’s smile when he was merrily chattering about nothing?

A local wine shop was the first stop on our road that day. Marcel was thrilled to get to know local specialties and to pick a few bottles as gifts for his colleagues back home. The owner of the place kindly let us sample his finest selection. I passed on, but my companion went with the flow, listening to an endless tale of bouquets and the regions of grape gathering. Observing the poor boy's cheeks get more and more red with each little glass was quite amusing. But when the time came to leave, I had to carry the shopping and take his arm to make sure he wouldn’t trip over his own feet. 

“Let's sit here for a while, shall we?” I asked him when we finally left the store and neared a little wall fountain by the town walls. 

I carefully placed the bag full of chianti bottles on the pavement. Marcel sat down with a deep sigh and leaned his head on the wall, gazing at me with his hazy eyes.  That moony look on his face was making me uneasy. 

“My God, you've got a wonderful jaw,” he said out of the blue. “You would make a perfect model.”

“You're drunk, Marcel.” I laughed nervously, looking the other way to mask embarrassment. 

“I’m just slightly lightheaded.” He tilted his head and continued to pierce me with the dreamy stare. „But you… you are good-looking.”

„Nonsense…”

I wasn’t used to being complemented. Moreover, complemented by a guy. Was he even sincere, or was it just another way to embarrass me? Good looking… And it was a man in the body of an ancient god telling me this. 

“Isn’t it fun?” I asked after a while. “Modeling I mean. You travel, party, meet people you wouldn’t ever think of seeing in person. Sounds like the best job in the world. Not entirely my cup of tea, but you seem to fit in.”

Marcel’s expression now changed. He laughed bitterly, covering his face with a hand. He looked at me, as if he wanted to say - sweet summer child, you know nothing. 

“Some moments you're on top of the world, yes. Other times you feel like shit. Financially… can be lucrative. It’s a game of chance, but there are ways to succeed, sure.” He paused, lowering his sight. „And each success comes with a price.” He finished with a gloomy tone. 

I only heard of the hardships of this industry. How difficult it can be to land a job, how you end up in debt if you don’t get booked enough during fashion weeks, how long some shifts can be. And of course the sexual scandals. It seemed to get better since the internet became a thing, but they were still emerging from time to time. Making it to the headlines, keeping the public busy. I didn’t know much about it all. I would say all workers at my mother’s fashion house were treated equally well, but it wasn’t the case everywhere. The fact that some companies considered models a property was an open secret. Did he have to deal a lot with those? Was he underpaid? Mobbed? Harassed?

“So… are you not happy? With your modeling life?” I asked timidly, not wanting to pressure him. 

He looked at me all focused, wondering about the answer. As if he was trying to measure words. Carefully, not to say too much. The blush on his cheeks faded a little, and it seemed he was getting sober, going back to his normal self. 

“Right now I’m happy. I really am.” He nodded and broke eye-contact, drawing a line under our conversation. „Okay! Shall we go?”

These were things he didn’t want me to know about, and I couldn’t blame him. We were almost strangers. Our paths crossed for a while just to split again, probably for good. But still I wanted to know more about him. Not only the good stuff. 

We proceeded with our trip as if nothing had happened and visited the antique store. Marcel picked a few vinyls and a photo album in a  dashing vintage binding for Paola, and I got myself a new sketchbook. After strolling down the center of the town, we stopped by a gelateria, and finished the day off on the piazza by the church. 

Right in front of us, just behind the railing of the viewpoint, a stunning image of the Apuan Alps was spreading. We left the bags on the ground, leaned on the ledge and continued to eat the ice-cream, while admiring the breathtaking panorama.

“Is the chianti we bought really the best?” Marcel asked. „The guy at the winery bragged so much about the quality.”

“I don’t know if it’s the best, but mom and Marco like it a lot. Why?” 

His sight was unusually calm, maybe even sad. He was avoiding my eyes, focusing on the cone he was holding. It was a version of him I wasn’t accustomed to yet. Suddenly a careless boy hid somewhere, letting the seriousness and sorrow take over.

“Good. I'll leave them a bottle as a thank-you gift for taking me in.”

“Is that so?” My heart jumped suddenly. He was trying to tell me something…

There was still quite some time left, wasn't there? I counted the days for the first time since he stepped into our house. It was Friday, and the catalog shoot ending off the project was planned in exactly one week.

“On Monday I'll be moving to a guest house here in Castelnuovo. You'll have the room all to yourself again.” He finally looked at me with a weak smile.

A few days prior I would have been more than happy hearing the news. But now I wasn't so sure about my feelings. Suddenly I began to worry about things I haven't said and done. There were so many questions left unasked, so many conversations we could have had. I wanted to let him know that he wasn’t an intruder anymore, that he could stay if he wanted to. But my throat was clenched. My palms paralyzed, pressed against the cold stones of the ledge. I only managed to sum his words up with a cynical smirk. 

“Well, better late than never.” 

Was my answer what he wanted to hear? Did he want to spend more time with me as well? Even if he did, he showed no sign of disappointment. My words were brushed off with a laugh, but something changed in the atmosphere. What used to be a jolly afternoon trip at the start, ended with a preposterous silence. A silence none of us dared to break.

Saturday came, and he was gone again. No words of explanation, no goodbyes. Fair enough, I left him no reason to care. We said what we had to say and could commit to different matters now. I was free to leave my introverted ass at home. He was free to run after the girls again. We went back to the beginning it seemed.

Lying on the bed during the day I was browsing my drawings from the passing week. Marcel's silhouette was taking more and more space in the sketchbook with every page I flipped. As if an intruder turned into a muse, as if a muse became an obsession. 

Obsession… 

My fingers ran through one of the portraits. His jaw was sharp, his collar bones well-pronounced, the skin of his neck smooth and clean. He was wearing that red Valentino shirt in the picture…

My sight landed on the mattress at the other end of the room, unusually disarranged, as if his owner had left in a hurry. That exact shirt was laying on top of the bed, like a crimson stain adorning the immaculate mess of cotton folds. Its vivid color was tempting me to get closer, to lay my fingers on the soft material, to bury my face in it. One moment I was revising the drawings, the other I found myself drowning in the smell of citron and grass mixed with salty sweat of the only body I dared to dream of those days. 

I shucked off my top, put his shirt on, and sat in the nest of his sheets. My fingers were grasping the folds of bedding around, impatient, hungry, willing. In a luscious fever I grabbed his pillow. Pressing my nostrils to the fabric, absorbing his scent, soaking in it, I understood I was well beyond saving. I couldn’t control myself anymore.

Not knowing where he was that day, I assumed he could enter the room any minute. The thought of him suddenly opening the door was taking me over the edge. What will he say if he sees me now, I was wondering in between the thrusts. Will he be angry? Will he despise me? Will he join? 

I closed my eyes, imagining him appearing in the room. “What on Earth?” He asks, his thick southern brows raise in shock. “Do you like what you see?” I moan in a trance of desire. He kneels down on the bed in front of me. I can see the bulge filling his trunks. “Help me, Marcel.” I beg, reaching to his crotch. “Marcel…”

He didn't enter the room. He didn't see. Maybe he'll notice in the night, I thought,  when he covers himself in the mixture of our scents. Maybe he'll get angry. Maybe he'll get turned on. Maybe he'll brush it off. 

Was I just horny or was I getting insane? Have I completely lost my mind over that guy? I kept telling myself it was no big deal. That my madness didn’t do any damage. It was gross, yes. But it wasn’t harmful. Was it? He was about to leave for good soon anyway. Two more nights…