Solitude...*
SOLITUDE
It was so hard to live with his wife; her constant presence in the house was driving Claudio Martini crazy. He met her when he became a widower, when that woman in black caught his Marietta without giving him the opportunity of pay a rescue. He had just got home after his wife’s funeral, then he felt the Other and he knew that she was going to be by his side until his dying day although he did not want to; many years later, indeed, he had not been able to get rid of her.
Claudio Martini was a writer, or he was it until his muse took with her his pen and notebook. It was then that he wished to know another trade that allowed him to run away from that house where, without permission, a hateful tenant had got settled; but he was a writer, and nothing else. A writer, by the way, that had never published his works since he did not write for the others but for himself. He called his stories “private” and “private” was the adjective to use because all his writings were a translation of all that he shared with his first wife: Marietta was the center of his life, the protagonist of his literature.
As every evening he went out for some hours with the intention of escaping from his so annoying mistress; he did not close the door, he always hope that the one who had become the owner of the house escaped someday. It never happened. He start to walk and unconsciously he arrived to this bench under the shadow of one of the trees at the seafront; the tree where his name and Marietta’s were written one day, the bench where one spring he had asked her to marry him. Claudio Martini went there everyday before the sunset, looking for inspiration, looking for her; and it was true that, in some way, he reached to feel her.
And certain man was found looking at the sea and from the sea they saw his lover coming. She never substituted the one he loved but she calmed him, she made him forget his miserable life. She got closer and she kissed him after being sat on his laps; he answered to the kiss and he gently stroked her leg, playing with her skirt. Curious like someone who opens a book that have not read before he discovered her tights; and afraid like an author when he starts to write a play he wrote their love with kisses and caresses. Together they composed a new tale that ended up with a sigh of pleasure. They stayed embracing each other and a tear decided to go for a walk through the cheek of that man who did not want to let go that samaritan that every evening made him remember what loving someone was. She kissed him once more while she took his pen from one of the pockets of his jacket, “I will come back every time you need me” she said and then she left.
He came back home and he knew that the woman who played his wife was still there, he whispered “you will never leave” and he even heard an answer but he did not pay attention. Before going to his room he went to the sitting room and he threw those four bad written lines result of his delirium at the seafront; he did write but if Marietta was not by his side to read his stories they were not worth being written. Another day had finished without any news and there it was Claudio Martini, in bed with his more recurrent lover, sleeping with and in Solitude.
THE END.