Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

A Perfect Idiot

know how to do, maybe the same language I was trying to decode in order to figure out how to free myself of my wife without being poisoned to death, and to understand Mel i ’s enigmatic words, which I had l istened to attentively but was taking my time to interpret. Mel i didn’t l ike to use makeup, she wore her hair tied back and, when she let it loose, it was impossible to comb, it was fine on its own and didn’t need cream, spray, accessories or dyes. Mel i seemed to hide nothing, from the moment we spoke for the first time, she’d given me the means to bel ieve in her as wel l as her body. Her body. I imagined it sti l l with that jean miniskirt, the sporty boy ’s tee shirt that compressed her two large breasts. Imagining those breasts without ever having seen them naked was much more exciting than staring for hours at the more exposed ones of my travel companion on the train for Padua. I didn’t know, obviously, that she’d organized her wardrobe before leaving. It wasn’t just about giving up her sweatshirt with transparent tee shirts and lace bras, but rather she thought of buying something a l ittle more adult, let ’s say, putting an end to a very precise phase of her youth, that long fl ight from the vi l la on the Corniche where she had so arduously bui lt a personal ity for herself, fighting with the other adolescents and final ly becoming a social worker, the kind that other kids with deficient

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