Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 96

the back pocket of her jeans

She dressed in one of my shrouds when we went to bed and scratched my legs with her toenails and all I could hear in my head was the blood orange accordion, the snap of dry spaghetti and then the sound of the peach stone tumbling in the gutter like lottery balls where she’d spat.

It was around two am that flashing blue lights turned the room into a massacre of discord. Her bones tensed in my arms. Without a glance at me, she slipped from the bed onto the balcony and the last I saw of her were her feet as she dived. I waited for the smash, the scream, the splash, but nothing, white space.

Inside the bag I found the Nikon from the bar, a passport, a couple of wallets and three other cameras. The little mirror was on the table in the kitchen.

I took the hoard to the police, just said I’d found it lying around. They asked if I knew anything about a stolen topo.

I flash a sunbeam with the little mirror, wait for a response from cimitero and flash again. The vaporetti leave the Fondamenta Nuove pontoon as I scan San Michele, with its thin brick walls tipped with marble and cypress trees. Seafood risotto drifts on the breeze. I’ll wrap her in deep waters if I can. Someone hums ‘Volare’.

Amanda Oosthuizen is from Hampshire, UK and loves to travel, especially to cities. Her work has won prizes and been shortlisted in various contests, and is published in all kinds of places including King’s Cross Station. Take a look at