Marcel wears a lightweight, black coat with a casual, white v-neck as we stroll down the serene streets of Venice. A coat in June? It's more of a duster cardigan, but I see where you're coming from. It's an unusually cool day, but very nice – 60 degrees.
His hair is tied up into my favorite style and he's clothed in black from the waist down. Marcel's fashion is put-together, minimalist, yet very sexy.
I can admit this to you, not him. Admit it to him you say? Do I have to? It's time? What do you mean it's time? I haven't been checking him out? Okay, whatever. I said OKAY! This is why I don't talk to you much.
"You look nice." I break our pending silence with YOUR compliment.
He catches his stunned mug and shifts it into a modest, closed-mouthed grin. "You keep breaking out cute dresses. I'm trying to keep up with you." He walks with his hands in his pockets.
"I had to wear something flowy. I knew I'd be eating the whole time."
My fingers lightly graze over a bouquet of pink flowers sitting in a bike's basket. Looking up, I admire the white, brick homes.
Grabbing both of our attention, my and Marcel's eyes dart across the street to a bakery. No matter where you are, once you smell fresh bread, you feel at home and comfort.
"I like what you did to your hair."
"You did it."
He bows his head and allows the crinkles by his eyes to form as a result of a drawn smile. Lifting his face, Marcel instills a soft chuckle, then passes the deemed compliment.
"It's pretty."
"Thank you." I accept the appreciation of my natural curls with a simper of my own.
"Incoming." Marcel takes my waist and pulls me to the side as three, adorable boys come running our way – two passing us.
The remaining drops his ball at Marcel's feet. The English kid kindly uses the inside of his foot to pass it to the Italian boy. The little guy kicks it back. Then, Marcel kicks it to me before I deliver it back (in my heeled sandals) to its owner.
"Dai Nicolo!" A small voice rushes our teammate along.
The boy picks up his ball with a wink and missing-front-tooth smile then rejoins his buddies. I watch over my shoulder, spying one nudge another while he points to the back of his head. Puzzled to begin, the nudger points to me. With excitement reading in his bright, brown eyes, the other aims a small finger towards me. At the revelation, the nudged leaps into the air as he covers his mouth, celebrating the flower in my hair. I turn to Marcel with a tickled smile.
Marcel opens his hand to our little teammate and is rewarded with a slap that doesn't take up half of his hand. Immediately, the other adorable kids get in on the action by tapping Marcel's welcoming palm.
Bringing the ball over his head, our teammate launches the ball down the opposite sidewalk to resume their game. Squealing, they all go chasing after it.
"How freaking cute?" I wave to them, earning precious waves back.
"Sweet kids. Do you like soccer?" Marcel asks.
"Love it."
"I'm not really into it." He lours as he shrugs, revealing his boredom of the most popular sport in the world. Still, he builds a conversation out of my interest. "Who's your team?"
"Juventus."
"Ah." He nods. "Ronaldo?" He guesses my reasoning.
"My favorites are Mario and Dybala." I state matter-of-factly with a straightened posture and closed, rejecting eyelids.
"Look at you." He nudges me. "Ever been to a game?"
"Of course not. This is my first time in Italy."
"Right. Right." Marcel nods. "Maybe when they play Manchester, you can see them."
"Maybe."
Statures and century-old architecture creeps me out. At the same time, I find it to be the most beautiful form of art. There was no such thing as technology. You have to appreciate the craft, detail, and sacrifice of these timeless pieces. That's one of the many reasons why I adore Europe. It was no surprise that the Venetian Gothic style of Doge's Palace would take my breath away.
"How did people make such artwork like this centuries ago?" Marcel's eyes are glued to the ceiling. "How the hell did they get up there?" He mutters. I don't think it worked like that buddy.
"They had so much more patience." My nose is also pointed to the overhead artistry. "The attention to detail – stunning."
"Right this way everyone." Another guide shows us around the museum. We've been here for 20 minutes and I've already forgotten her name. "Here, we have-"
Marcel's accent steals me away from my awed sightseeing. "You fit right in." He holds the viewfinder of his camera before me.
"Sneaky."
"You're full of wonder, aren't you?" From the look in your eyes, so are you.
Crossing my arms, I pout, fingers tapping along my chin as if I'm in the depths of my thoughts. My squinted eyes aim towards the window before coming back to Marcel's entertained ones.
"What's life without wonder, sir?"
He interlaces his fingers before himself, only to heighten his brows with the assumed answer.
"Routine, ma'am."
"Well done."
"This whole area was ruined by a fire in 1483, but was rebuilt. It's now," The brown, bobbed woman opens her arms, accentuating the room with a spin. "as you can tell... a Renaissance style." Clasping her hands, the bifocal lady trouts towards an open door. "Once again, this is the Doge's Apartments."
"Did you get photos of the Golden Staircase?"
"Duh." Marcel flips through his photos.
"Duh, my ass."
"I duh your ass in the canal." He sasses as he stares at his camera.
"That sounds disgusting."
"Angel." Marcel snaps not only his tone, but neck at me after realizing how that came off. I try sealing my mouth before the laughs escape, but I have no control over them. Putting his camera away for a second, Marcel attempts to discipline me for the crude joke. "That's not okay. Behave." Relax, grandpa.
"You said it." I clear my throat as we continue following the group of 10.
"The palace is linked to The New Prisons. The corridor leads over the Bridge of Sighs." The guide leads everyone.
"Learned about that today," Marcel mentions.
"Nerd." I whisper to myself, but Marcel hears and nudges me away from him with his arm.
"We will be visiting the torture chambers."
"The who?" I immediately stop following her.
Marcel continues to walk, until he realizes I'm not by his side. "What are you doing? C'mon." He waves his hand.
"No." I deny the thought by shaking my head of curls. My wide eyes reveal my true dislike for unwanted adventure. You must be out of your mind.
"Angel." Marcel sighs, frustrated by my lack of movement as the group continues with the tour. He turns back to me with his mouth tightened into a straight line.
After clapping my hands together, I extend one in the direction of the bunch. "I bet there's shit down there."
Marcel undermines my fear by shrugging dismissal off his shoulders. "Like what?"
"Rats... dirt..." I count off with my fingers. "And oh yeah, ghosts!" I throw my arms to my side with my persistent standpoint.
"Ghosts?" Marcel doubles with annoyance weaving through his disbelief. "Girl, if you don't come on." He comes to me holding out his hand. I cross my arms, rejecting the attachment.
"I don't want to. Torture chambers? No, I'm not going."
"I'll be right there and so will they." He points to the group.
"What are you gonna do, knock the ghost upside the head with your camera? Show them your gagging photo to scare them off." I go through his possible protection tactics.
Marcel sucks his teeth as he rolls his ocean green eyes. Knowing the tide will wash in my direction, I lock my arms to brace myself.
"First of all, that picture no longer exists. It's not to be spoken of again. Do you hear me?" He tilts his head as if I'm supposed to take him seriously. HE CAN'T EVEN TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!
"Do you hear me?" I stretch my neck. "I'm not going to no damn torture chambers.
"I can't believe you have me in the damn torture chambers." I hold on to Marcel's arm with my whole body.
I can't help myself from regularly checking behind us. I need to know what's happening in each direction. I don't need anything sneaking up on me, brushing my foot or tapping me on my bare shoulder. I'm not having any of that!
"You're fine." Marcel's tone softens toward me, noticing how paranoid I've become.
"It's cold, because of all the ANGRY SOULS." I harshly whisper, looking up to him as he looks down on me. If someone would have said this to me, I would be laughing in their face. Marcel isn't even holding it against me. About time!
"Why are you shaking?" He whispers.
I rest the side of my face on his shoulder as I pout. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. I don't want– I feel warm, soft lips on the side of my head, leaving a quick kiss behind. Jesus?
"It's okay. Look," He points ahead. "we're almost out."
Boy, did you just put your lips on my body? Did you think that was going to calm me down? I'm about to sweat! You guys, it's a new day. Mark it on your calendars.
"Oh my God. There's writing on the walls. The cells are so small and there's barely any light down here."
"Just close your eyes." He covers them for me.
"Up this stairway, we have the-"
"Narrowest staircase ever." I check behind us again. Mistake. Abort. Abort! ABORT! It's dark. I turn back around before my mind has the chance to play tricks on me.
"This was secretary to the magistrature with the Republic. This way, we have the Office of the Great Chancellor. Today, this would be known as the General Archives."
"Oh, wow. How neat?" I listen to the couple before us. I welcome the delighted comment. For a while there, all I could hear was the beat of my heart and screams of my fears. I do not like the dark.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm better." I remain glued to him, hoping my trembling didn't bother him.
"I didn't know you were that scared." He says as we go up another staircase.
"This beautiful chamber is the Chamber of Secret Chancellery."
Its walls are elegantly lined with wooden cabinets containing documents relating to the work of the Venetian magistrature. The mirrored upper doors are decked with coats-of-arms and names of chancellors.
"In this small room, we have the Regent to Cancelleria. One goes to the Torture Chamber."
Girl, what do you mean?
"What?" I halt again. "Marcel." I let go of his arm to eyeball his confused expression.
"I thought we already passed it." He points his thumb behind us.
I take a deep breath, watching the crowd making their way across the room. I bow my head for a moment, giving into the groan leaving my throat.
"Also known as the Chamber of Torment. Cross-examinations were held here before judges. The instrument of torture was rope. You know where I'm going with this." The Edna Mode looking woman insinuates.
With parted lips and an emotionally exhausted mien, I direct my attention to Marcel.
"Have you ever been tied up." He teases, attempting to lighten my elevated mood.
I retake his arm and say, "Marcel, now is not the time."
"There's a time and place for everything and I'll take that as a yes." I feel his deep chuckle.
After the tour, we were hailed by the setting sun. With kitten-heel sandals, I couldn't wait to find a bench to rest upon. After fixing my comfy dress, I cross my legs and draw in a deep, lung-cleansing breath. That's enough adventure for one day.
I successfully made my way through the Chamber of Torment. I can't say I'm proud of myself because of how tightly I was latched to Marcel, but I did get something out of it.
He plops down, occupying the seat next to me. I can feel him watching, but I need a moment. My hands aren't as steady as they're accustomed to. That must be the theme for today: anger and fear – leave Angel in shivers.
As I'm fumbling with my fingers, Marcel opens a new dialogue. "You are adorable when you're scared."
A soft huff leaves my throat, which turns into a demure smile. Checking on him, Marcel watches the lively neighborhood people.
"Is that why you kissed me?"
Marcel pulls his guilty lips into his mouth before claiming his defense. "I thought you would have comfort by being latched to me. That wasn't enough. So, I went with instinct." He watches the passing pedestrians then me, causing me to snatch my gaze away from his mouth. "Was I out of line?"