Getting Up: Finding My Way Back in a Flash, 2011-2014

Vacations

Unhappy in Rome

Cristina stomped her foot on the curb and teetered on the edge of the busy roadway. Francis stood on the opposite side with a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He threw his arms up like, "What do you want from me?"
A shimmery, silver Balenciaga halter dress sliding mid-thigh, Cristina crossed her arms and yelled. "You step out in traffic in New York, but you're afraid to step out in front of these itty bitty cars. It's sink or swim time, sweetie."
Francis assessed either getting jammed beneath the wheel of a Cooper in the middle of Rome or emasculating the guys circulating behind her. He ran for it. He reached the sidewalk but not before a Lamborghini almost twisted his right leg out of shape. He grabbed Cristina and hustled her into the nearest shop.
"Are you serious? I could have been maimed. Our love life was at stake." Francis shrugged another cigarette out and eyed her silky legs.
Cristina threw her bag over her shoulder and dusted the lapels of his black leather jacket. "If you don't start dressing better, we might not have a love life."
She smiled and kissed him; he could hear the tittering of females to his left. "Let's go back to the room for a siesta. I'm tired," he said.
Cristina punched him in his arm. "Oh no, you promised me credit card max-out today, you cheapo."
Francis gaped at the racks of clothes, shoes, handbags, must-have accessories. Oh God, they had Dolce and Gabbana. He threw up internally.
He turned back and Cristina's mascara was a mess. Giant, black tears stained the silk that draped her body. "I wanna go home now, Francis." Crying like a child next to him, a confused Francis peered through the window of the shop. He saw a small boy playing next to his mother. Coal black hair, light-colored skin, deep blue eyes, wearing a bunny T-shirt and denim jeans - a mirror image of their lost son. Francis' own deep blue eyes watered and expanded.
He picked Cristina up, she wrapped her legs around his torso, and he carried her back to the hotel.

***

An Overdue Honeymoon

Anthony and Pamela Topica shuttled their way through the throng to the boarding gate. For 15 years, they had saved for an all-expense paid, whirlwind, romantic first honeymoon to Venice. Anthony slugged his backpack onto the seat, and Pamela settled in for the hour wait. Her leather knapsack sat unobtrusively at her feet. Anthony lit a cigarette, snapped the lighter closed, and ran his fingers through Pamela's curls. His baby had collapsed into a soft snore immediately. She had been up all night agonizing over dresses, shoes, and jewelry.
He rubbed his stomach and realized he was hungry. Maybe his darling had thoughtfully packed some crackers and not some of those disgusting diet bars. He slid the buckle undone, flipped the flap back, pushed aside some clothes and gasped. He had dated Victoria Secret for a month and what did she pack - high-waisted cotton white, cream, and oh, maybe to insult him with some color, cranberry-colored Hanes underwear. Are we making sails for a boat? He held his breath and counted. No.
He whispered in her ear. "Do you love me?"
Pamela stirred and blinked at her husband. "What?"
Anthony took a breath. "Do you love me?"
Pamela sat up straighter and eyed her husband. "No, I lied to the priest when you put the ring on. What do you want?"
Anthony extended the opening to her carry-on. "I paid $500 for sexy and what do I get, my grandmother's top drawer."
Pamela snatched the bag from him, slid the clasp back together, and slammed it to the floor. "I have belly fat, okay. They flatten my stomach out, okay. We all have our little tricks. Sports Illustrated is in the other suitcase. You're a total moron, ya know that?"
Anthony patted her tummy, kissed her on the cheek, and dragged his smoke slow with a smile. "Just checking."

***

Travel Delay