Il buon sangue non mente
Never get pissed with your girlfriend's father, particularly when you have a tendency to lose control of your tongue and sense under the influence of mass amounts of wine. It's my truth serum, and I really should have known better. If I had a bottle of Tuscany in front of me now I'd admit I knew I couldn't step foot on Italian soil and not get myself into some manner of trouble. But it seems I just have, alcohol or none.
I've been telling myself, convincing myself, from the day I found out Sophia was having a baby that this child is the key to bringing us back together. It's a way to undo all of the indiscretions and distances created while I struggled to write, perform, sing, distribute and tour for an album. That's what it should be, and what I want it to be. Yet those imposing shadows of doubt still shade my view of the woman I love more than any other pleasure life can bring.
I can't blame Sophia for my doubt. I pushed her aside one too many times, slept in the loft over the garage one inebriated night too many. What choice did she have but to get what she wasn't getting from me somewhere else? Whoever is to blame, whether it's me, her, or the cocksucker who knowingly slept with her again and again despite knowledge of her pre-existing relationship - it doesn't really matter. What does is that the child she carries may not be mine. Yes I've mentioned this before, I know. I've tried with all my will not to believe that. When it enters my mind I deliberately force those thoughts to dissolve, and overpower them with something else. But no matter what I do, they always return.
Sophia's father is an admirable man. He's distinguished in the ways only a fellow of his years and experience can be. He has bright genteel eyes and a smile for everyone, much like his second-eldest daughter. Only I could be so miserable to melt that sort of expression from their faces. We took a hydrofoil to a favorite pub of his, he and I, and sat outside on a star canopied veranda over the water drinking and smoking cigarettes for hours. In my drunken idiocy I let it slip about the baby possibly not being mine. He was silent for a time, sipped his wine with solemnity, then leaned forward with eyes narrowed and dim. "John," he said to me, "do you love my Sophia?" Of course, I answered. "Then forget everything else, it means nothing. Just love her. That's all she wants."
It sounds so simple that way, just love her. Unfortunately nothing is ever quite that easy in a world of paternity tests, custody battles, and mid-life crises.
I've been telling myself, convincing myself, from the day I found out Sophia was having a baby that this child is the key to bringing us back together. It's a way to undo all of the indiscretions and distances created while I struggled to write, perform, sing, distribute and tour for an album. That's what it should be, and what I want it to be. Yet those imposing shadows of doubt still shade my view of the woman I love more than any other pleasure life can bring.
I can't blame Sophia for my doubt. I pushed her aside one too many times, slept in the loft over the garage one inebriated night too many. What choice did she have but to get what she wasn't getting from me somewhere else? Whoever is to blame, whether it's me, her, or the cocksucker who knowingly slept with her again and again despite knowledge of her pre-existing relationship - it doesn't really matter. What does is that the child she carries may not be mine. Yes I've mentioned this before, I know. I've tried with all my will not to believe that. When it enters my mind I deliberately force those thoughts to dissolve, and overpower them with something else. But no matter what I do, they always return.
Sophia's father is an admirable man. He's distinguished in the ways only a fellow of his years and experience can be. He has bright genteel eyes and a smile for everyone, much like his second-eldest daughter. Only I could be so miserable to melt that sort of expression from their faces. We took a hydrofoil to a favorite pub of his, he and I, and sat outside on a star canopied veranda over the water drinking and smoking cigarettes for hours. In my drunken idiocy I let it slip about the baby possibly not being mine. He was silent for a time, sipped his wine with solemnity, then leaned forward with eyes narrowed and dim. "John," he said to me, "do you love my Sophia?" Of course, I answered. "Then forget everything else, it means nothing. Just love her. That's all she wants."
It sounds so simple that way, just love her. Unfortunately nothing is ever quite that easy in a world of paternity tests, custody battles, and mid-life crises.