Simona Sparaco - About Time

“sVEVO, WHY DON’T YOU ever return my calls?”

I’ve never understood what goes through a woman’s head when she ventures on such dangerous terrain.

“I have a lot to do,” I reply, my usual impatience clinging to my insides like a monkey.

“You just don’t want to.”

“If that’s how you prefer to look at it.”

There’s a flash of anger behind her calm smile. I know the taste of this woman’s skin, the texture of her private parts, the smell of her hair when the sweat plasters it onto her neck and forehead, even the exact pitch of her moans of pleasure, and yet I can’t make out anything in her expression but anger. And I can barely remember her name.

“You’re a hopeless case. I really don’t know what to do with you.”

“Neither do I,” I say with a shrug.

At this point, admitting defeat, she stands up. We aren’t alone at the table. We’re a well-matched group, men on a loose rein looking for fun, plus this girl and her companion in adventure, who seems to be getting on like a house on fire with the Deputy and doesn’t appear to have any intention of letting go.

“I’m off. What are you going to do? Are you coming with me?”

“I’ll see you at home,” the other girl replies, barely looking up.

“Where are you going?” my friend Federico asks her.

She walks away without answering, casting a final glance of disapproval at me before she disappears among the crowd.

She was a dark one. That’s what my friends and I call one-night stands who fade into the shadows by the light of day.

“You’re turning nasty, Svevo,” Federico says ironically. “You’re like an old maid.” The others echo his laughter.

I know he’s right. The fact is, I’m at that time of life when everything starts to turn stale. You must know what I mean. As soon as women feel comfortable with my routine, I start getting restless. It’s flattering at first, the way they look at me. I think they see me as a dominant male, the kind who’ll protect the nest. It’s all a question of nature, it’s written in the DNA of our species. Then, gradually, the excitement gives way to impatience, and none of it seems to matter any more: the colour of their hair, the smell of their skin, their perfect smiles, their well-toned thighs and arses. After a while, their gorgeous, Botoxed faces become redundant, superfluous, and that’s when, as my best friend says, I turn nasty.

Happy Hour continues, and I’m pretty sure some other dark one will jump on our merry-go-round sooner or later, but for the moment it’s enough to know there’s someone sitting with the Deputy, pending the pleasant evening I’ve laid on for him.

We’re in a bar in a square in Rome, a place where You have a long memory, and there opposite us, imposing and golden, is the Temple of Hadrian, but nobody seems to be paying any attention to its mute presence, nobody’s succumbing to its charms, everybody’s busy with seductive games of another kind entirely.

Amid all the pleasantries, I glimpse a group of young girls who look as if they’re out for a good time: the bright lipstick, the high heels, their newly matured attractions, the mobile phones that never stop ringing. They stay close to their older friends, chattering, laughing, playing with their hair. They may only just have come of age, they probably think the NASDAQ is a neurological disease and Bush a brand of detergent, and yet they excite me. Their skin, their hair, the delicacy of their curves, the first coat of polish on their thin nails: there’s something indescribable about their charm, the nonchalant way they move, unaware of the fact that they’ll never be as beautiful as this again and that they’ll soon be torturing themselves with pointless plastic surgery in an attempt to preserve that advantage.

Suddenly I have the impression the temple is looking at me, reading my thoughts. Its beauty is timeless: You’ve been eating into its majestic columns for centuries, but You haven’t succeeded in tarnishing its charm, which actually grows out of all proportion every time You take a bite out of it.

The evening is just getting started, we have dinner booked at a terrace restaurant in central Rome. The usual round of introductions, all those people it’s useful to say hello to. With some people you just have to know the right button to push, and I pride myself that I was born knowing that. Sometimes all it takes is a compliment, a well-timed joke, anything to put them at their ease, make them believe you have the solution to their problems in your pockets. The sly, merry expression on the face of my friend the Deputy, as he emerges from the toilet wiping his nostrils, confirms to me I’ve got it right again, and tomorrow, at the office, we may well receive the phone call we’ve been waiting for. If we get those building permits, the director will owe me a few favours.

Amid the monosyllables and the laughter, a stunning woman appears. She glides past us, with a male acquaintance I’ve never bothered with before, but who’s now suddenly turned into a dear friend.

“Long time no see! How are you?”

I think I’ve found my dark one.

I’m introduced to her, and she seems quite shy at first.

“I love this city, it’s so stimulating, like an open-air museum.” That’s the first thing she says to me, in a pronounced Milanese accent. There’s not a line on her face, not the smallest defect. Whoever designed her made sure all the optional extras were built in, just as you’d expect of a limited edition.

She’s almost fifteen years younger than me, and as I stare at her I’m thinking of the quickest way to get into her knickers, though I know that’s a fairly despicable attitude. I realize I made a big mistake, thinking she was shy, when the evening ends up with her standing almost naked in front of my bed.

An olive complexion, the kind I like, and an indecent quantity of brown curly hair tumbling over breasts so perfect she must have had them done. Did she? I’ll find out soon enough. She’s wearing what I think are real lace knickers, quite tasteful really, and she doesn’t seem to have any intention of taking off her stiletto-heeled boots for the moment. I suppose she thinks they’re some kind of armour. From the way she purses those petrol-pink lips she seems ready for battle.

I like studying every detail, every centimetre of her body, as if she were a valuable object I was contemplating buying. My only overt reaction is to smile, to show I’m pleased, and she blushes. I suppose she feels like Botticelli’s Venus: I’m transforming her, my eyes are the most delicate brushes that have ever caressed her body. I know this lingering scrutiny is starting to drive her crazy, but I’m curious to see how far she’ll go, how long it’ll take before she at last yields to my gaze and feels obliged to make the first move.

Instead of which, she surprises me: still smiling, she slowly gets dressed again, leaving me like that, lying on the bed. She’s like a jeweller closing the casket after revealing the price of the gems. Unfortunately for her, I have no intention of yielding, or of reaching for my wallet, and as she dresses, I equally slowly undress.

She can’t help it, she finds the whole thing amusing, but not enough to get her to join me between the sheets, she prefers to sit down in the leather armchair facing the bed. She starts playing distractedly with the remote that controls the blinds over the windows, and when she inadvertently raises them, she’s met by the view from my apartment. She’s enchanted by the lights of central Rome, so much so that she completely forgets about me lying there naked on the bed. After a few moments of total silence, she turns and says, “Thank you.”