James Jean Pierre

Lana

The sun rose at about 7:15-ish here in Milan. I usually get up when the sun starts to shine on my face and wake me from my slumber. From waking up I sat at my desk with a little black, leather-covered book sat in the center. I always feel the outside of it before I open it to write down the dreams I had the night before because it reminded me of my grandpa's old car seats. I have very fond memories of that car, especially when we used to go get Italian icees every summer. After I’ve finished writing in my journal I get on with my morning routine and before I head out I always grab a cup of coffee and two buttered croissants from this little shop down the block from my house. The man that works there, Tomeo, is my dad’s best friend. I always viewed him as my uncle even when we don’t have any blood relation to each other. He always had the AC on, but always complained about bills piling up. I used to tell myself that if he never complained about the bills, something wasn’t right and I am right about it most of the time. Then I head out to go meet up with my date at the grand canal in Venice. I knew that it would be a three-hour trip more or less to get there, but he was kinda cute so I didn’t mind as long as he didn’t. As I am sitting on the train, I put in my earbuds to block out any noise and also to listen to a new album that Jeremy Zucker had put out. He kind of reminded me of myself because of how hopelessly romantic I could be and emotionally attached, but maybe that’s only true when he writes music. After an hour goes by, I start to get impatient and so I look up to see how far we were when I saw a strange man sitting in front of me. He looked to be around my age and his face had a stripe of freckles, from one ear to the other. His glasses were round and gold and his eyes were light blue and dangerous. He was a skinny guy, but had veins all over his arms, and when I noticed that my heart began to pound. As he looked at me in a way that made me extremely uncomfortable he picked up a black book, identical to my black book. So then I pull my black book and I look at him, distraught, but his face continues to show no emotion and I don’t even think he noticed I grabbed the book. He starts to write into his book and asks me a question, “What is your favorite color?” I look at him confused, clueless even because he looked as if he wanted to kill me. I pressed my lips together to tell him beige was my favorite, but then he spoke again, “My favorite is beige, you know. I always thought that it went well with everything you know? Beige pants, blue shoes. Beige dress, red heels. To me, beige is the universal color.” He smiles as he finishes his thought. More importantly, did he just read my mind or is he my stalker? I shut down my preemptive thinking, crossed my legs, and said, “I was going to say the exact same thing, but just not in such a creepy way.” When I stopped talking I realized what I just said and immediately felt extremely embarrassed because it sounded too bitchy. He looked at me, furrowed his eyebrows, and chuckled, and said, “What about that was weird? Just a friendly conversation.” Before I speak I fix up to show that I am interested in this conversation, but I was too nervous to think straight. So then while smiling I say, “Yes, but you looked like you were going to kill me. A poor lady like me couldn’t defend herself.”