The Art of Tetman Callis

Some of the stories and poems may be inappropriate for persons under 16

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The Italian Story

“I was born here,” she said. “More coffee?”

“I was born farther north,” he said. “Please.”

He told her the story of his life. She smiled and served more coffee, burned incense, and played dreamy music on her stereo.

They kissed. It seemed to be his idea.

They kissed again. She was almost certainly in collusion.

They kissed a third time—implicit agreement made explicit through action. Candles had been lit. She told him the story of her life. He drank her coffee.

She told him what she wanted and what she didn’t want.

“You,” and, “Please don’t want to wear my clothes.”

“They wouldn’t fit,” he said.

She kissed him and held his hands, her eyes bright. She said something he liked when he heard it, though he found it hard to believe.

He believed it anyway.

He told her something she liked so much it alarmed her.

She did not believe it.

She said something later that bent his heart, and it never bent back. This is not as sad as it may sound.

(Originally published in Cicatrix, Vol. 1, Issue 1, 2017. Copyright 2017 by Tetman Callis.)