A Vanilla Sunday
A raw and moving reminder to savor every moment by JD Clapp
They wandered through the cobbled stone medieval streets of Florence. The early spring mist common to Tuscany chilled the air, and she drew herself into his large frame, his thick wool sweater a source of heat and security.
He imagined life in the time of the Medici, spoke of arcane historical marvels that held little interest to her but elicited a smile, not born of politeness but of her admiration for his boyish enthusiasm. She marveled at the melding of new and ancient design, commenting on how the new fashion and jewelry boutiques, with their modern facades, still managed to work set into five-hundred-year-old hand carved, stone buildings. Italy suites her.
She insisted they stop at Chiesa di San Paolino to photograph the marble work for her design business before they toured the Uffizi. Inside, she took numerous candid photos of him wanting to preserve this moment, knowing their future was uncertain. We have now. We have now. Be thankful for now.
After the gallery, they ambled down an alleyway and found a small trattoria. Inside the stone-walled, candlelit dining room, they drank two carafes of the house red. He ordered boar sausage and local artisan cheeses. Still chilled, she ordered a bowl of ribollita. “Good god this is so good,” she said. “I wish we could bottle the smells in here,” he noted. As they ate, they argued playfully over the best exhibit hall at the Uffizi, her liking the Romantic masters section, him the Renaissance.
Near sunset, holding hands, they strolled the Ponte Vecchio. While she lingered in a small leather shop examining bags, he continued down the bridge, saw a gold seller and stopped. When he saw a gold necklace with a boar’s head charm, he bought it knowing he would have to explain why to her.
As they walked back their hotel, Residenza Conte di Cavour, he hesitated, but gave her the charm. “That’s a man’s charm,” she said. “It’s me,” he said. “Wear it and I will always be with you.” She kissed him. She pulled herself into him again, her eyes moist as they walked in the chill night air.
Back at the hotel, they climbed the three flights of stairs to their small room. “I need a nap before dinner,” he said and laid on the bed. “I’ll join you,” she said and laid next to him. Not sleeping, she held him until he softly snored, then moved to the chair by the window. She read from a worn copy of the Moveable Feast she’d found on the shelf of their room next to a Bible and some tour books.
When he woke, she was in the bath. He poured them both a glass of wine from the bottle they’d started the night before. He went into the bathroom, handed her the glass. “Join me,” she said. He stripped and climbed in with his back to her. A year ago, he would not have fit in the tub with her. She washed his back and thinning salt and pepper hair. She massaged his shoulders. He rubbed her legs while they spoke of the day.
After they dried, she led him to the bed. “We have time before dinner. Let me get the toys from the suitcase,” she said. “Not tonight,” he said. She looked hurt; she did not understand.
“No toys. Vanilla tonight. I just want you.”
She smiled. The last time we made love was before my… She didn’t let her mind finish the thought.
They made slow love. He took his time exploring her body in a way he’d long forgotten. His strong, life worn hands traced her c-section scar, the scar of her reconstructed breast. He gently kissed her not quite correct restored nipple.
“I love every part of you. All of you,” he said.
She knew he was too weak to stay on top. She guided him to his back and climbed atop him. She locked her lips to his mouth as she slid him inside of her. Then she sat up, ran her hands across the remains of his once heavily muscled chest and shoulders. She looked at him, both now fully in the moment. Her eye avoided the small x tattoo on his chest. They held each other’s gaze until they finished.
Before she could roll off him, he began coughing. It was a slow, dry hack at first, but it grew. He tried to suppress it, but he eventually got up and went into the bathroom.
Behind a locked door he coughed for a few minutes with water running in the basin. Through the door, a slight tremor in her voice, she asked if he was alright. “Yes, I’ll be fine in a minute,” he answered. She sighed loud enough for him to hear. He knew she’d be crying when he came out.
As his breath steadied, he spit a mouthful of blood into the basin. He washed it away, shook his head. Fuck.
That moment at the sink would be the only part of that day he did not relive in his mind over and over for the next four months.
This was a heartbreaking read 🥲 But their love for each other served as some light in the darkness. I enjoyed this one!