A mild wind was blowing, making the bottom of his midnight blue overcoat dance a mischievous dance in the cold theatre of dusk. The sun was pouring the orange powder of its all over the passing strangers. It was a gloomy day. Was it because of the strange colour of the sky or not, he couldn't figure. Was there again her pair of soft hands to touch, that sea of blue eyes to immerse in and that pair of ruby lips to kiss, it could have been an evening, as lovely as they come, and the picturesque romance of the orange sky and the blue water a most beauteous sight to behold. It must have been that troubling knot in his stomach that twisted the beauty, smearing it with a painful longing. That must be it.
He stopped in the middle of the bridge, took his hands out of his pockets and rested his palms on the ledge of the arched bridge over the Canal Grande. With his back to the passing crowd, it was easier not to draw attention with his moist eyes and the lump in his throat. The attention nevertheless, was drawn to him, regardless of what he did. He wanted so badly to sink to the cobblestones of the bridge and cry... Cry like a baby of 57 that he was.
He took off his fedora hat and let the chill autumn wind caress his gray hair. The chillness of the wind blowing against his head was a sweet relief. A bittersweet gaiety that, as bitter as he was, he cherished. Numbed the pain, it did.
He put his hat on the ledge, climbed up the there, and sat there cross-legged beside his hat... So much for not drawing attention, he brooded. What do I care. Silent as he ever was, he sat there and kept his eyes locked to the river. With every passing boat a flickering flame of hope started to burn in his heart, which vanished shortly thereafter. Why hasn't she come? That same old pang of anxiety struck at his heart.
He turned his head down, looking down at the passing water beneath him. A weary old man, was what the water reflected of him; with the sparse hair almost as white as snow and the face deprived of any hope of life. When had he become so? He couldn't remember...
Some feet away, past a group of people taking photographs, a leader explained to a fellow tourist “This is the man they call the Loner of Venezia. It’s unbelievable. Thirty years ago, the ferry with which his wife was coming back from a travel undergoes an accident. He was supposed to greet her here, unaware that she had been drowned. They say he’s been so ever since they told him of the accident... The poor guys hasn't just been able accept it. Every day he thinks that, this is the day that she is supposed to come back home...”
Give Life Back to Music
TotW 192: On The Canal - WINNER
Miles
Originally Posted by Shankbot de Bodemloze
Let be the first to congratulate you mate, an excellent tale.
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