glance, it seemed unclear whether they had crawled out of their hiding places and started having fun or whether they hadn't yet managed to return home to their hibernation spots to get themselves sober. It was a peaceful sight! Lera enjoyed this festive atmosphere, breathing it in, drinking it up.
By the end of the day, Lera had trampled Capitol Hill and wanted to rest her aching legs and pamper yourself in honour of the upcoming New Year holiday. At random she went to the first restaurant in Sant'Angelo she spotted hoping for nothing – the very centre of Rome on New Year's Eve.
Imagine Lera's surprise when il cameriere pointed out a tiny empty table in the corner. That table was large enough only for a glass and a little saucer to place it on, but Lera didn't need more.
It was warm in the restaurant and there were delicious smells of a food from the kitchen and pine needles from wreaths hanging on the walls. Lera squinted like a cat who got warm and lazily watched passers-by hurrying home for the holiday outside the window.
She ordered a spumante and a cake with a huge cap of air cream. On top of the cream was a tiny hemisphere of reddish jelly – the pulp of the prickly pear fruit, frico d'India. A dessert spoon glittered on a beautifully folded napkin, and, looking at it, Lera felt a devil jumping on her left shoulder. The imp tugged at her ear demandingly and smiled toothily.
Lera looked around furtively, made sure no one was watching her, bent down and took the fruit pulp with her lips with inexpressible pleasure. Her face was smeared with cream, which had to be licked off for a long time with giggles. After making sure no one paid attention to her hooliganism, she drank half a glass of wine in one go.
The bubbles instantly hit her nose, and a minute later they passed through an absolutely empty stomach and reached her very heart, warming it. The imp on her left shoulder straightened up, swayed drunkenly, looked around and rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Lera looked after him. Instantly got tipsy, she was eager to continue her hooliganism. Looking around the small room, she saw a beautiful polished minion standing in the corner. She stretched her fingers to check if they were warm enough and, with confidence fuelled by the spumante flowing through her veins, began to make her way towards the instrument.
****
Marco was sitting in a restaurant, slowly sipping wine from a glass. He didn't feel like eating or going home. The only thing waiting for him at home was a mess made by Marco himself that no one would clean up during the Christmas weekend.
He and Paola separated almost two months ago and for some reason, the loneliness was especially acute today. He didn’t want to see Paola, their relationship had outlived its usefulness and ended surprisingly quietly. When they broke up, they both felt nothing but relief. Marco didn’t actually know what he wanted.
The couples and groups around him were annoying. Everyone was wearing red for the New Year, they were celebrating, laughing and taking pictures. Marco sat alone, twirling his glass with his fingertips. Not even the wonderful smells from the kitchen tempted him.
All Marco's muscles were aching frantically – today Giorgio had tormented him with special frenzy. At the end of training, Marco cursed the author who had invented the fighting scenes in the book, the screenwriters who had brought these scenes to the forefront, and himself for getting involved in this adventure.
The director was delighted with Marco's acting, but his fighting skills were not up to scratch. Well, Marco had never fought! He preferred noble ways to sort things out, and he loved team sports rather than this scuffle.
Unfortunately, it was very obvious on the screen. Marco confessed that his attempts to hit the face of an imaginary opponent were pathetic. However, Marco Guerriero did not shy away from difficulties! And for six months, Giorgio the mixed fight trainer had been bullying him at the gym.
Today, the trainer was particularly merciless. He seemed to be trying to inflict bruises on Marco for the future so that he would have enough for the weekend. Marco's ass, which was beaten off the floor, ached disgustingly, and Marco himself whined in unison with it. Both of them, Marco and his ass, hid their pain behind a mask of severe tension, like real men.
Tomorrow was supposed to be a day off, but Marco couldn't let go of the feeling that no one would let him relax. And it was even more infuriating. On New Year's Eve, Marco was supposed to celebrate and have fun, but he was in no mood at all.
The door of the restaurant opened and a girl fluttered into the hall. She was a tall, curly–haired redhead wearing a light coat. However, the coat quickly explained itself – the girl spoke to the waiter and Marco heard an interesting accent. A northern tourist. "I hate tourists!" thought Marco and starred at his drink. The girl went to a table in the corner, opposite Marco, and began looking around with her big eyes.
Marco wasn't sure why he was staring at her. Perhaps it was because she was alone on New Year's Eve as well. The waiter brought the girl a huge tart with cream and a glass of wine. The red-haired girl carefully looked at the tart and then furtively looked around.
"Well, now, he's going to steal a spoon as a keepsake!" Marco thought wearily, but the girl did something absolutely different. She gently opened her lips and delicately held the tip of her pink tongue. Marco swallowed. His field of vision narrowed instantly to a tiny spot in the centre of which was the flushed face of the red-haired beast.
With an expression of lust, the girl bent over the tart, carefully wrapping her lips around the reddish flesh of the finico d’India and sucking it into her mouth with visible pleasure. At this movement, her cheeks slightly retreated. The girl tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes, savouring the sweetness on her tongue. There were faint traces of white cream on her lips.
Marco's blood instantly boiled. He gripped the stem of his glass tightly. The man leaned further into the shadows so no one would notice him staring at the girl. Involuntarily, he parted his lips, watching the girl tastefully roll the pulp of fruit on her tongue before licking the remnants of cream from her lips with a giggle.
Marco cursed inwardly, feeling an unwelcome heaviness in his groin, and suddenly became angry. He was angry with Paola because his pride prevented him from calling her and inviting her to spent an evening to relieve tension. With Giorgio for aching legs and arms. With all of the couples at the tables for being so cheerful and laughing loudly. And finally, at the girl for not being able to use a spoon or a napkin.
Marco turned away abruptly, noticing how the girl had gulped half a glass of wine as if it were plain water. A drunk! A minute later, this witch was already stomping across the hall. Marco realized from her flushed face that the wine had reached its goal and was directing her actions more than her brain. The girl definitely couldn’t drink! Marco snorted contemptuously turned away keeping watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Meanwhile, the girl reached the piano in the corner, hesitated in confusion for a second, then finally fell down on the banquette and began playing some Christmas melody. Marco involuntarily turned around and looked at the girl. Her graceful fingers were fluttering over the keyboard, and her slender feet were stomping on the pedals. He wondered what those feet would look like without shoes.
The little red fox was swaying to the beat of the music, a slight smile playing on her lips. She clearly enjoyed what she was doing. Marco cursed again, tossed a few bills onto the table, and left the restaurant before he could properly put on his coat
He was waving his arms as he pushed them into his sleeves, accidentally hitting a homeless man who had been looking through the restaurant window. Without much remorse, Marco threw out a "Mi scusa" and kept walking, cursing under his breath about the December cold and all tourists in general.
He barely noticed the
