patience, discipline––all of the multitudinous
virtues. Instead it has us cracking up.
Her analogy was a
piece of fruit. How we were all like little plump plums or other dumplings on
the vine. Like a peach, a peach was good.
And if we got picked
too soon...
How about not getting
picked at all? What if we just fell off the magical tree, which, in the
analogy, was St. Martley’s? What if we just fell off and nobody noticed? What
if we just lay on the ground, wormpecked and rotting? Who would eat us, then?
There were 8 Virtues,
according to Mistress Genevieve: Insight, Discretion, Virtuosity, Malleability,
Severeness, Humor, Goodwill, Grace.
Hers was clearly
Severeness. Sometimes Becks would do a rendition of Mistress Genevieve. “We
must be beautiful, powerful bitches,”
she would say. “Stern when we need to be.”
That had me thinking
what my Virtue was? Knowing me, I’d probably get stuck with Malleability , whatever that meant. Virtuosity sounded cool. That must be badass
witchcraft.
* * *
There was a storage compartment on the back of the Vespa
under the seat. I bought some laundry detergent, shampoo, and bars of soap, and
headed back to my apartment on Via dei Condotti.
My landlady nodded her approval. She had facilities onsite:
washers, dryers. It got me thinking of Trastevere, and how freely its occupants
aired their dirty laundry. ‘I’m too much
of a coward to be so free. Instead I have you, Diary.’
* * *
He hasn’t come yet. I
stood around down in the street, for a while, window-shopping. Drooling is a better term. Waiting for him to show
up. I swear I don’t drool at the thought of boys and whether or not they
remember promises ever, Diary. There are so many boy rules when it comes to
second contact. It’s coming on nine o’clock at night. The summer days are long.
I think the nights must be mercurial in response. Who knows what may happen? I
think I will change into some fresh laundry. Yes.
I want to see more of
Rome. I find all I want to do is mix, mingle, and be single. All those Six Nine
Guys can’t all have girlfriends.
Drool.
Chapter 8 – Lennox
Things were not going my way. It began with my wheels. The
scent of dead guy was strong with this Fast Walker. He kept bitching and
moaning.
That was a powerful trifecta of reasons not to take John
Occam’s car. Next, the wardrobe issue. I had two stops to make. The first one I
was not looking forward to. The second one I was. I did not want Halsey Rookmaaker
to think I walked around in a trench coat all the time. So I put on something
new. You could only wear leather so much in the summertime, anyway.
Unfortunately, that meant I would have to take the sewers,
otherwise I would end up burning to death in the sun. I would probably end up
getting to the morgue late and smelling really bad.
Which meant she was going to be wondering where I was, when
I didn’t show up to her place on time. Stalker Boy didn’t miss a beat. Can’t tell her. Can’t stay away from her.
Problems, problems.
That was something else that was bothering me. I usually had
someone to talk to about my problems. Occam was incommunicado, doing god knows
what. I could hear him now.
Girl? What does a girl
have to do with the Zombie Apocalypse? Throw her off a really high cliff,
preferably into a pit of stakes. If she lives, she is evil.
Stalker Boy was a little more adept.
If you turn her ,
he reasoned, she may enjoy that you have
fangs. She can’t ever be anything serious.
He proceeded to relate it to coffee.
She is like a shot of
espresso. She makes this teeny-tiny little cup. But you want to make a bigger
deal of her than she already is. So you make her into a caffè latte. This is a
tall glass of coffee. A rich, full-flavored experience. It is to be savored
that much longer. But what you fail to realize is that she is still that same
hit of espresso. Like a drug. All you have succeeded at is watering her down.
Drink her and be done.
It would be
virtues. Instead it has us cracking up.
Her analogy was a
piece of fruit. How we were all like little plump plums or other dumplings on
the vine. Like a peach, a peach was good.
And if we got picked
too soon...
How about not getting
picked at all? What if we just fell off the magical tree, which, in the
analogy, was St. Martley’s? What if we just fell off and nobody noticed? What
if we just lay on the ground, wormpecked and rotting? Who would eat us, then?
There were 8 Virtues,
according to Mistress Genevieve: Insight, Discretion, Virtuosity, Malleability,
Severeness, Humor, Goodwill, Grace.
Hers was clearly
Severeness. Sometimes Becks would do a rendition of Mistress Genevieve. “We
must be beautiful, powerful bitches,”
she would say. “Stern when we need to be.”
That had me thinking
what my Virtue was? Knowing me, I’d probably get stuck with Malleability , whatever that meant. Virtuosity sounded cool. That must be badass
witchcraft.
* * *
There was a storage compartment on the back of the Vespa
under the seat. I bought some laundry detergent, shampoo, and bars of soap, and
headed back to my apartment on Via dei Condotti.
My landlady nodded her approval. She had facilities onsite:
washers, dryers. It got me thinking of Trastevere, and how freely its occupants
aired their dirty laundry. ‘I’m too much
of a coward to be so free. Instead I have you, Diary.’
* * *
He hasn’t come yet. I
stood around down in the street, for a while, window-shopping. Drooling is a better term. Waiting for him to show
up. I swear I don’t drool at the thought of boys and whether or not they
remember promises ever, Diary. There are so many boy rules when it comes to
second contact. It’s coming on nine o’clock at night. The summer days are long.
I think the nights must be mercurial in response. Who knows what may happen? I
think I will change into some fresh laundry. Yes.
I want to see more of
Rome. I find all I want to do is mix, mingle, and be single. All those Six Nine
Guys can’t all have girlfriends.
Drool.
Chapter 8 – Lennox
Things were not going my way. It began with my wheels. The
scent of dead guy was strong with this Fast Walker. He kept bitching and
moaning.
That was a powerful trifecta of reasons not to take John
Occam’s car. Next, the wardrobe issue. I had two stops to make. The first one I
was not looking forward to. The second one I was. I did not want Halsey Rookmaaker
to think I walked around in a trench coat all the time. So I put on something
new. You could only wear leather so much in the summertime, anyway.
Unfortunately, that meant I would have to take the sewers,
otherwise I would end up burning to death in the sun. I would probably end up
getting to the morgue late and smelling really bad.
Which meant she was going to be wondering where I was, when
I didn’t show up to her place on time. Stalker Boy didn’t miss a beat. Can’t tell her. Can’t stay away from her.
Problems, problems.
That was something else that was bothering me. I usually had
someone to talk to about my problems. Occam was incommunicado, doing god knows
what. I could hear him now.
Girl? What does a girl
have to do with the Zombie Apocalypse? Throw her off a really high cliff,
preferably into a pit of stakes. If she lives, she is evil.
Stalker Boy was a little more adept.
If you turn her ,
he reasoned, she may enjoy that you have
fangs. She can’t ever be anything serious.
He proceeded to relate it to coffee.
She is like a shot of
espresso. She makes this teeny-tiny little cup. But you want to make a bigger
deal of her than she already is. So you make her into a caffè latte. This is a
tall glass of coffee. A rich, full-flavored experience. It is to be savored
that much longer. But what you fail to realize is that she is still that same
hit of espresso. Like a drug. All you have succeeded at is watering her down.
Drink her and be done.
It would be
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