#MySexySaturday7 104th: Vita Obscura

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Welcome to another My Sexy Saturday!

Today’s theme is Late Summer Sexy, but I’m going with this, Vita Obscura. It is my Nano 2012 project that I eventually abandoned for a time and recently tried to make some sense of. It is also the foundation of Ardent Fire, the novel that has been waiting patiently for me to return to and get the revisions going. I think this will end up being a novella, and it is still a bit rough. Set in Florence, during the Renaissance.

~*~

 I, Tito, had painted Sandro’s face and body on the murals and screens of palazzi and churches, ceilings and canvas; my muscular angel, golden curls, brown expressive eyes, a smooth and boyish face even after he became a man. The wings I had painted in but, oh, how we had flown.

Now, I wanted to weep as I beheld this older version of my former lover. Sandro Begetti ignored me outright, looked past me and through me with a slightly curled lip revealing his contempt. At Lorenzo de’ Medici’s generous table, some devil had placed him across from me. The room overflowed with artists, poets, philosophers, and the usual sycophants, filling the place with talk and more talk while I sat in yearning quietude, for once, watching Sandro from beneath my lashes or the corner of my eye. I wanted to speak to him, anything, even please pass the fish, but imagining that only led to imagining more.

My own fault, sitting here like a mooning maid over the past instead of taking the man in my arms once more, a reunion of the sort that left me breathless to imagine, ashamed by my present inaction and my past actions.

God in His Heaven, the man looked good. Talking animatedly with his neighbors, his manners polished, his smile ready, though a wary look in his eyes remained. My gaze caught in the weave of Sandro’s hands in the air as he described some sight he’d seen on his journey through the East. A few gold rings caught the candlelight; even that light hurt my eyes and caused me to squint. I recognized the onyx as once belonging to Sandro’s father. Was he dead, then? The old farmer in my memory had presided over a table of four boys and three girls, and myself, the church foundling, who’d seduced and convinced the farmer’s son to leave with me so long ago. Had they forgiven me yet?

We thought ourselves men all those years ago, but no, here was a man, cutting a fine figure in a brown silk doublet cut short in the latest style, with slashes of cream and black winding around his arms and pearls on a black velvet collar. His golden curls, burnished with the constant sunlight of travel, brushed his shoulders.

I gusted out a sigh, reached for my full wine goblet and promptly knocked it over, splashing Sandro with a few drops onto his cheek. The well-muscled sculptor beside him stopped whispering in his ear to laugh.

“Merda, I’m sorry, I’m–” an idiot, but stubborn pride kept me from admitting it as Sandro, pointedly, deliberately, wiped the wine from his cheek.

Sandro

(photo credit: http://www.globalgallery.com/ original: Pietro Berrettini )

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