Genova

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Written by Priscilla Wong

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Genova sits a quick train ride from Milan.

 

The man thought himself a dandy born in the wrong country - if this were Italy instead of America, he'd be right at home. Though then, he reminds her with a crooked smile, they'd never have crossed paths.

 

There they sat, two fine-dressed folk playing at murder, fingers wrapped gentle-like around each other's throats while they sipped their coffee, casual as cattle grazing. A bull and a scorpion, locked in their dance.

 

She yearned to be more woman, while he dismissed her manhood like yesterday's news. The sweetness he hungered for just wasn't in her bones. Even the rough-handed girls learned to titter and chirp around him, raising their voices bird-high just because he took to wearing heels with his long hair.

 

He fancied himself Columbus, drunk on Italy and Japanese trinkets, never mind the stink of war criminals like Mussolini and Tojo. She bound her chest flat, played at being Zorro in those knee-high boots, collecting masks like some collect cards. They'd fight over Magellan and the Philippines until their tongues went dry, then make peace over pasta and wine.

 

"Brilliant!" he'd cry, watching her. "The finest woman's a man!" But her cold eye for his artwork and her need for American friends cut him deep as winter.

 

"I'll rob you blind! China's nothing! Watch your tongue!"

 

"Burn you like a Gypsy at the Catholic stake!"

 

"I'll tell the world a Chinese girl broke me, and they'll come for your mother country!"

 

The threats poured out like bad wine while that cockatoo hair of his bobbed and weaved.