I got up half-heartedly at 6 am and at 7 already was in Hounslow on the A4 when Rafi flew over me in the massive Svirgin superjumbo from New York. I had the impression that the landing gear shaved my head. How could people live there, it was a mistery less comprehensible only than why the hell the airport had been developed to the west of the city, when it was well known that the wind is westerly most of the time and airplanes will always counter wind rigorously. This meant that an airplane per minute, a thousand a day, flew over the city at a low altitude, and naturally in times of terrorism the clever people in the government decided to expand it, Heathrow, with a third runway and a fifth terminal... Bah, politics, politics, I couldn't help thinking of anything else. And women. It would have taken half an hour more to get and park at Terminal 3, but it would have taken even more to her to tidy up the first class. I wasn't late. I was never late.
Rafi carried around her forties pretty well. She spent half of them up in the sky reaching the top for her career - responsible of the first class cabin, never more than eighteen passengers and a decent catering to share with her colleague Maria Cristina, a good salary and a fixed route with invariable ruotine: five atlantic flights a week, alternating weekends between the twin metropolis. That nocturnal flight had been an exception due to a terror alarm on her customary flight from Newark the morning before, which was due in London at 8pm on friday. Had it not been for one of those more and more frequent alarms, she would have ended her working week like it had begun on monday morning in Newark. Instead, the following one would have started on the afternoon flight which would have taken her to New Jersey in time to catch up Manhattan for dinner. A beautiful life her Italian friends were envious of, getting to know a lot of interesting people in first class, although a bit stressful time to time, the bigger annoyance being wearing high heels and nylon stockings, a synthetic material she didn't like. As usual, as soon as she jumped into the car she got rid of them both, only to put on her heels again, causing me the erection which was to accompany us at home. Unfortunately I couldn't stop by, I had to go to the party headquarters. I parked Rafi and the Ferrari in the garage, I kissed them both and went walking along the Thames. -----------------------------------------------------
Hands in pockets and his head laid back, taking a lazy walk along the Hudson rippled by a breeze ruffling his flowing raven hair, Mauro breathed deeply the air thick of electrons in the first weak light of dawn on the Big Apple's horizon, estimating his love life a year after he got there. It was 4 am on an August saturday of a year dominated by beautiful Natasha, with whom he experienced the most intense love story of his life but had to split in order to save both lives: the relation of the Russian high diplomat at the UN with the investigative journalist linked to the annoying Italian radicals was not appreciated by the moscovite oligarchies, as the pervasive as well as persuasive Russian mafia in the city kindly let them know. The devastation at the end of the relation with Natasha couldn't be nothing but equally deep than elevated had been their passion, and in the vain attempt to overcome the depression he gave himself without conviction to an Upper East Side native bird. Beautiful, tall, sexy, an evening Liza was dead drunk he took advantage offering himself to go to her place to translate some dull Italian pop songs, only to find out she was frigid like one of those refrigerators which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being.
She seemed very sweet: after that night no more than three hours barely elapsed without a phone call, a text message, a mail, a wishing card with chocolates, candies, flowers, an allusive cactus allusive. For weeks they shared breakfast, lunch, supper, the respective sofas and every free moment, as if their bodies rolled up into one in one of those washing machines which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being. The whirlwind consumed itself quickly and she slowly began to take back time for herself: gym, jogging, hairdressing salon, shopping, tanning, manicure, chiropodist, brazilian, and getting out to drink and smoke with her friends. The fact that these were named Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha should have made him suspicious. She dumped him via email. Suddenly she no longer wanted to see him. Until the day before they were talking about introducing him to her parents upstate and planned a romantic trip to Italy: Rome, Florence, Venice, the lakes… The day after she won't stand him anymore.
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