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[tag: Isabel Giovanni]
All last summer he's seen girls parading their breasts and belly buttons... and even now, with the first bit of sun, they show their flabby folds and white legs like plucked chicken. What vulgar displays of flesh this age seems to find erotic... And it's not that he minds nakedness, God no; both Fiammetta and his sister have worn less, but-
Shaking his head as if to clear it, Cesare slides a thumb-nail through the tape sealing the package. The perfumed silk paper glides rustling to the floor, revealing two layers of black lace, separately wrapped in yet more paper. He hadn't been able to decide upon which mantilla, so he got both, the antique one from the 1750's and the new, designed in an atelier in Barcelona.
Funny on what small things it hinges, this semblance of modesty. But Donna Isabel is right; it's just a tool, a most expedient one at that, and why not combine the useful and the pleasant? Ecco. His fingers gently pass over the handmade lace, softened by use, yet fragrant - some 200 years worth of lavender, from the smell of it.
The combs he's found to go with it are of more recent make, 1850's and (strangely enough) from the American West, but they're much better than most things he's been able to order from Spain. It would be different if he could actually go there, go to Valencia and roam the streets (and pay a visit to the ducal palace of Gandia, to spit and piss on what used to be Juan's doorstep) and browse the small artisans' shops... Still, he thinks, pulling out the more modern piece of lace, these aren't bad. Not bad at all. He imagines securing one of those peinitas in Isabel's hair and hums a saucy tune while his fingers are spreading the second mantilla, the new one.
Intriguing swirls, those. Like fern. Like the twisting, shivering shapes behind eyelids pressed closed in terror... or in rapture. Biting his lip, he folds the mantillas again, then puts the carton where Isabel is most likely to see it.
All last summer he's seen girls parading their breasts and belly buttons... and even now, with the first bit of sun, they show their flabby folds and white legs like plucked chicken. What vulgar displays of flesh this age seems to find erotic... And it's not that he minds nakedness, God no; both Fiammetta and his sister have worn less, but-
Shaking his head as if to clear it, Cesare slides a thumb-nail through the tape sealing the package. The perfumed silk paper glides rustling to the floor, revealing two layers of black lace, separately wrapped in yet more paper. He hadn't been able to decide upon which mantilla, so he got both, the antique one from the 1750's and the new, designed in an atelier in Barcelona.
Funny on what small things it hinges, this semblance of modesty. But Donna Isabel is right; it's just a tool, a most expedient one at that, and why not combine the useful and the pleasant? Ecco. His fingers gently pass over the handmade lace, softened by use, yet fragrant - some 200 years worth of lavender, from the smell of it.
The combs he's found to go with it are of more recent make, 1850's and (strangely enough) from the American West, but they're much better than most things he's been able to order from Spain. It would be different if he could actually go there, go to Valencia and roam the streets (and pay a visit to the ducal palace of Gandia, to spit and piss on what used to be Juan's doorstep) and browse the small artisans' shops... Still, he thinks, pulling out the more modern piece of lace, these aren't bad. Not bad at all. He imagines securing one of those peinitas in Isabel's hair and hums a saucy tune while his fingers are spreading the second mantilla, the new one.
Intriguing swirls, those. Like fern. Like the twisting, shivering shapes behind eyelids pressed closed in terror... or in rapture. Biting his lip, he folds the mantillas again, then puts the carton where Isabel is most likely to see it.