--» 𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔰 «--

part two

As the train pulls into Florence, I am just as wasted as I had expected myself to be. It also doesn't help that I let a drunk huddle of men buy me a few drinks on the train. I'm, in every way possible, wasted.

The boat was bloody terrifying; a box full of people bobbing up and down violently for a whole two hours. But, the good news is that there was no retching. The train was smooth, oscillating along the tracks, rocking me to sleep. I got some photos of the trip between naps, a few from the little small-town farms and fields we passed by, and others of large and ancient Italian or French cities. Architecture is a fascinating thing, changing constantly over centuries, sometimes just decades. Every building is a new chapter, a fresh start.

"Miele, aiuto," a young woman nudges as I alight from the train, which is stopping only for a short while.

"Sì," a man replies to her, taking a seemingly heavy bag from her hands. He is at least half a foot taller than me, but then again, I'm just past one and a half metres. I have never been a very tall kid, and since I'm almost past my teens I shouldn't grow much more; however, sometimes it can be nice to feel small. It puts the enormity of the world into perspective; you're no more than an ant in a garden. It's scary to think like that, that I'll never be impactful upon this big marble spinning in the universe that spans thousands and thousands of miles.

I listen to the voices around me, observing the connections people have with one another. The man and woman are in a full conversation, dragging luggage as they walk from the platform. They look like a newly married couple, and now that I've paid attention I can make out a glimmering emerald ring on the woman's left hand. I translate their exchanges from Italian to English in my head, picking up most of the words I hear. Luckily, English is a close secondary language here, spoken quite commonly. Florence should be a cakewalk.

༊*·˚

I ring a bell on the counter. It's rusted and ancient, dirt blotches and layers of dust showing its age, but it rings loud with pride. Even it looks more awake than I.

I sit for a moment before a boy, looking to be about my age, maybe just over twenty-one, shows up at the counter. He has fluffy blonde hair, which is messy and wavy, probably from sweat and humid air. His jawline is defined, but his cheeks are like muffin tops on his face. The earring on his left ear accentuates his bright, colourful eyes. They are a soft green, the same tone as a four-leaf clover. His skin, unlike mine, is tan and perfectly shaded. He is wearing a thin blue-and-white-striped button-up, buttoned to the top loop, and khaki shorts with more pockets than you could ever imagine a pair of pants to have.

So much for a cakewalk.

"Scusa, signore." He whips his hair from his forehead, grabbing a clipboard from the counter that has clearly been used for years and years without care.

"No, it's quite okay," I reply. My cheeks feel a little hot, and I can tell that the rosiness they usually possess has only increased since he appeared. I normally don't let myself go so easily with first appearances, but he's got something about him that puts me into a dazey trance.

"Oh, English, good. I have been studying for years but never got a chance to use it. You are American?" His accent is light and sweet, not thick and dreary like mine. I sound pathetic next to him, and my pathetic appearance only begins with the sounds.

"Well, I'm actually from the United Kingdom, but I'm flattered." I show him a toothy grin and his face goes dark. I hate America as much as the next person, but I'd hate making him ashamed far more.