Firefly City

Editor’s note: ‘Firefly City’ by Kelsey Clifton placed second in the Short Story Contest organized by The Florentine and The Sigh Press. Guest judge and author Kamin Mohammedi praised Kelsey’s story, calling it ‘sparky and appealing.’

 

Ponte Vecchio by night was a study in drama: golden plaster and sultry shadows, frank lines and playful arches. Like any of Nature’s own creations, it managed to exist in a state both oddly symmetrical and passionately boundless. Not for the first time, Will mentally kicked himself for leaving his sketchbook in his apartment. His perch on one of the wide triangular outcroppings of Ponte Santa Trinita was known for its unparalleled view of the famous bridge. The young art student was thinking idly about Giorgio Vasari and his hidden corridor when a booted foot swung down and kicked him in the head.

 

‘Shit,’ a voice said from above him, and the foot froze on his shoulder. ‘Désolé, I mean, ah—dispiace? I am so sorry, molto dispiace…’

 

‘It’s okay,’ he said, craning his head to look up. The old street lamps illuminated a head of wavy blonde hair, but the girl’s face was in shadow. She wore a leather jacket, probably purchased earlier that day, and a massive camera hung around her neck. ‘You can come down, if you want.’

 

‘Thank God you speak English. If it’s not food related, my Italian sucks.’ The girl shifted sideways and landed on the dark stone beside Will, using the side of the bridge to brace herself until she was sitting. Sighing, she dusted her hands off and turned to smile at Will, giving him a glimpse of her face at last. ‘I’m Kenna.’

 

She was pretty, with hazel eyes and lipstick the exact shade of the stuffed peppers that Will had grilled for lunch. When she offered her hand to shake, he took it and said, ‘I’m Will. Where are you from?’

 

‘Rhode Island. You?’

 

‘Wow, seriously?’ he asked. ‘I have literally never met anyone from Rhode Island before. I’m from California.’

 

‘It’s because we’re about as rare as Bigfoot,’ she said, and her smile deepened. ‘So what are you doing out here?’

 

‘Sculpture courses at Lorenzo de’ Medici. You?’

 

She held up her camera. ‘I’m Super Tourist, able to irritate everyone around me in a single breath. Some kids at my hostel said this bridge had the best view of Ponte Vecchio, and when I got here I thought, I could totally reach that ledge.’

 

‘And that’s how I got kicked in the head?’ Will asked.

 

‘Exactemente. Sorry about that.’ Kenna was quiet for a moment, just watching the reflection of the lights bob on the dark, indolent waters of the Arno. Through the central arches of the bridge ahead, she could see dozens of yellow-white orbs lining the river for at least a mile. ‘I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here.’

 

‘You basically have to call ahead with a reservation in the summer,’ Will said, ‘but most of the tourists go home after August. And it’s still too early for the locals to be out.’

 

‘And too cold,’ she added, shivering and pulling her jacket tighter. The leather squeaked, and the smell of it reached Will on the light breeze. ‘They’re probably not stupid enough to be out here when it’s like fifty degrees.’

 

‘Not without something to warm them up,’ Will agreed, pulling a bottle of red wine out of the bag at his feet. ‘No cups though.’

 

Kenna’s eyes glowed. ‘Cooties don’t scare me.’

 

Using a pocket bottle opener, Will expertly extracted the cork with a satisfying pop and offered his new friend the first sip. Her initial drink was more of an energetic swig than anything else, and Will found the motion of her throat absolutely fascinating.

 

‘Mmm,’ she said, wiping the rim free of lipstick with a thumb. ‘I don’t even like red wine and that’s good.’

 

‘Italy’s the best at a lot of things.’ Will took his own, more delicate sip and continued, ‘Art, red wine, food, the countryside…’

 

‘L’art de l’amour,’ Kenna said, puckering her lips and exaggerating the final R sound until it was a purr.

 

Will, whose language skills were limited to Italian and a bit of Spanish by proxy, guessed, ‘“The art of love?” Is that French?’

 

‘It is. You have no idea how many of my friends requested an Italian boy as their souvenir. I myself have fallen in love no fewer than six times today.’

 

Leaning his head back against the stone of the bridge, Will snorted and asked, ‘Only six? This must be your second week.’

 

Kenna waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’m picky by nature. Besides, there’s plenty of vacation left, and I fully plan on falling in love at least that often every day.’

 

‘That sounds exhausting.’

 

The look Kenna gave him as she took the wine bottle back would have done his cat proud. ‘Clearly, you’ve never tried it.’

 

‘What, falling in love with someone?’ he asked, glancing over at Ponte Vecchio. Like the grand old diva that she was, the bridge demanded his attention completely and often. She was romantic in the floodlights, and Will personally thought that she was at her most stunning after the sun set. ‘It’s happened a couple of times.’

 

‘Not just boyfriend-girlfriend shit,’ Kenna said, her motions a bit more expansive than before. ‘There’s all kinds of love in the world. There’s firefly love and giant tortoise love, and a hundred thousand loves in between. I believe in all of them.’

 

Will thought about it and answered, ‘They’re good for different things. I’ve never seen a tortoise glow.’

 

‘Good point!’ Kenna said. ‘That’s why you need to get out there and experience as many as you can, because one day you’ll start thinking that you’re too old for the kind of bullshit we’re pulling right now.’ She dug through a pocket of her coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, vigorously tapping the base against her palm. ‘You smoke?’

 

‘Not yet.’

 

Kenna extracted a cigarette with practiced if clumsy fingers and lit it between silvery gusts of wind. The tiny flame illuminated her face, adding one more bright point to those already on the water. ‘Stay strong. It’s expensive and nasty as shit.’ She took a deep drag and turned her head to exhale, then sealed her lips around the cigarette and lifted her oversized camera.

 

After a moment of hearing the soft click of the shutter, Will asked, ‘Did you come down here just to get this angle?’

 

‘Yes,’ she said around the cigarette, pausing to light the tip with a breath. The resulting ash disappeared over the side in lazy ripples.

 

Shaking his head, Will drank from the wine bottle and said, ‘You’re crazy. You know this is technically illegal, right?’

 

‘And? I like taking pictures of beautiful things. For example…’ She turned the camera and snapped a picture of Will laughing incredulously.

 

‘You think I’m beautiful?’ he asked.

 

‘I do. It’s like…’ She took a drag from the cigarette and blew it out before continuing. ‘You know when you’re in a museum, and you’re quite clearly not supposed to touch something, but it’s so gorgeous you just can’t help yourself?’

 

‘And then security tackles you? Yeah, I’m familiar.’

 

‘That’s what you’re like for me,’ she finished, offering him a hit from her cigarette. ‘You’re like a Michelangelo. You’re just…so full of life.’

 

‘There’s one problem with your theory,’ he said, taking a quick drag and coughing. ‘Security guards only warn you away from the good stuff.’

 

Her eyes were matter-of-fact as she inhaled and then blew out, flicking ash off the smoldering end. ‘Who told you that you weren’t the good stuff?’

 

‘My ex,’ Will admitted.

 

‘Fuck her,’ Kenna said, taking one more drag before she tossed the spent cigarette out into the Arno. ‘I mean, not literally; that kinda defeats the purpose. But forget whatever bullshit she ever fed you about not being good enough.’

 

Sighing, Will leaned his head back against the stone. ‘I’m trying. I mean, getting away from her was half the reason I came out here.’ A smile as relaxed as the river itself spread across his face. ‘And then I sorta found a home.’

 

‘City love. That’s hard to beat.’ Kenna lifted the wine bottle and paused with it halfway to her peppery lips, offering him a smile of her own. ‘Thanks for sharing it with me.’

 

The wind picked up again, carrying the scent of cigarettes and something earthy. And maybe it was the wine, or the scene in front of him, or even the girl at his side; but for a second, Will could swear that he felt his chest begin to glow.