Page 71 of Vicious Intentions
Raffaele sounds deeper now, more mature, as if he’d become a completely different person.
Did our time apart affect him, too? Could that be the cause of this emotional growth?
I shake my head. No. I’m not conceited enough to believe my absence had any effect on him whatsoever. The more plausible explanation for this sudden change is his time in theCosa Nostra. I can only imagine the misery he’s seen up close. That kind of exposure changes a person. It definitely changed him. But did he change for the better?
Raffaele once had suchjoie de vivre, and now it feels as though that light has been extinguished. There’s no boyish charm in his texts anymore, just a grown man who’s seen too much, done too much.
A part of me misses the way he used to be. So free. So animated. But this Raffaele speaks to my soul somehow. As if we share the same language now. Though I’m not sure that’s a good sign for either one of us.
I take a deep breath and tackle the elephant in the room. The one topic we’ve been circling around.
Me:It helped, you know. Being able to send you all those messages, even knowing you would never see them. I think it was the only thing that carried me through my darkest hour.
I chew on my bottom lip as he starts typing, then stops and rewrites whatever he was about to say.
Rafe:How are you?
There it is again, that same question. This time, instead of deflecting it, I answer honestly.
Me:The fat gold watch still ticks.
Rafe:I’m glad.
That’s all he says. That he is glad. But somehow, it feels like he’s saying more.
For the past few weeks, I’ve become accustomed to Raffaele texting me in the middle of the night. So much so that I don’t dare close my eyes when I go to bed. Instead, I just lay there in the dark, waiting impatiently for the phone to vibrate with a notification from him. Tonight, his quote is taken out of “Invictus.”
Rafe:“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
A smile crests my lips as I read it. It’s a well-known verse from William Ernest Henley’s poem about perseverance, emotional control, and moral strength through life’s trials.
Me:What? No Plath tonight?
Rafe:I didn’t want you to think I had a Sylvia Plath fetish.
My cheeks warm, embarrassed that I even suggested such a thing.
Me:I do enjoy a good poem, but I feel Henley didn’t leave much room for the woman’s experience in his writing. His worldview feels distinctly male, as if a white man’s experience of life were meant to be universal.
Rafe:So you don’t like his writing?
Me:It’s not that I don’t like it. It just doesn’t speak to me on an emotional or intellectual level.
Rafe:I’ll remember that and send you only feminist poets from now on.
I don’t know why the thought of Raffaele rummaging through his literature collection, trying to find the perfect quote for me every night, makes me smile, but it does.
Rafe: How are you?
Again, those three words that would have filled me with dread if spoken by anyone else.
Me:The fat gold watch still ticks.
Rafe:I’m glad.
That’s all he says.
And it’s enough.
