TE22 Potpourri

Antonella Lattanzi

This Looming Day

very handsome, with thick hair dancing on his shoulders as he ran. “You’re alright, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry,” the boy reached out to her. He was a little sweaty, his face contrite but innocent, his body agile, electric. Two little girls of about five trailed behind him, shamefaced, waiting for a good scolding. The boy pointed at them and said in a deep breath: “We were playing hopscotch, Teresa threw the stone too far. Excuse us. You’re okay, aren’t you? Teresa, apologize to the lady.” Teresa came forward reluctantly, red in the face, her little hands crossed behind her back, her head down and hair tousled. Francesca massaged her forehead. I’m sorry,” Teresa said. She had black hair pulled back in two loose braids, blue eyes with golden streaks. “Shake the lady’s hand,” the boy said. The little girl extended her child’s hand, small and plump. Wrapped around her wrist, she wore a small, vermilion-red bracelet, nothing more than a thin, tightly knotted ribbon. Hidden behind her mother, Angela scowled as she observed the little girl. Francesca turned to the boy, pointed to Emma: “You could have hit my daughter.” “Please don’t tell anyone,” he said, crossing his legs in embarrassment, “the parents pay me to keep an eye on the kids and, you know…” He took on the same expression as Teresa and became even more handsome, a beauty so evident, of which he was so unaware, and so full of future that it made her think: He’ll be beautiful when my daughters are his age. The little girl behind Teresa was bored. She raised her arms in the air and ran in circles, pretending to fly. She also had the same red bracelet.

“Little girl,” Teresa said to Angela, suddenly very happy, “do you want to go down the slide? I like the slide, it calms me.” It calms me? Francesca looked at her. At times Angela also came up with phrases like that. She felt like smiling. “Can she?” the boy asked. “If she wants to,” Francesca said. “No,” Angela said with fiery eyes. She huddled even closer behind her mother. Teresa and her friend scurried away without a care and began to chase each other. They stopped, shrieking in front of a kitten, white and gray with a small round head, half-closed eyes and a sort of blissful smile under the girls’ caresses. A little farther there was a bowl with food and one with water. Only when she saw the kitten did Angela light up. But she didn’t come out from behind her mother’s back. “That’s Birillo, the courtyard cat. Everyone loves him. He’s everyone’s kitten,” the boy bent over, hands on his knees, to speak to Angela. “He’s always here when you want to play with him. Now he’s your kitten too.” The boy waited, but Angela ignored him. “Nothing, I can’t get her to forgive me,” he said, smiling apologetically with his eyes. “I’m Carlo by the way,” he added. “Again, excuse me. And welcome.” Then he hurried after the girls.

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