#Cristof has his dramatic moments where he is the most over the top idiot in all of the venetian lagoon

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

This is the problem, Cristof decides as he perches atop his trunk, in the boat, swimming in robes, and swatting at mosquitoes. The problem is that he doesn’t know what to do when someone looks at him how Nicolo looks at him which is to say with infinite tenderness. Cristof’s brain is clever about Greek, Latin, numbers, music—it’s clever about so many things—but when Nicolo does this one particular expression everything promptly shuts down and Cristof becomes inordinately stupid.

Then Nicolo will have the temerity to say things like, Do not judge yourself by what you haven’t done and look at all you’ve accomplished. Rude of the man to drop sentences like that then look at Cristof as if he were worthy of being stared at, as if he were a work of art.

Love, Cristof knows, is knife sharp, thick like blood, and dark as sacredness. He wishes he knew what to do with it when it arrives at his doorstep. He holds it in his hands and wonders if he should set it down or, perhaps, put it in his pocket to take with him. He, himself, wishes someone would take him along with them.

One of the rowers whistles as they come to a bridge, slowing to wait behind a boat filled with chickens, barrels, crates, bushels of produce. The wooden bridge draws up and they pass along. A porter, sitting to Cristof’s side, waves at a woman hanging out linens. She calls to him. His wife, they exchange their love. Water laps at itself and the world around it. Low tide exposes algae, barnacles, muscles. The day runs cool. Cristof inhales, wraps cloak about himself, turtles in for warmth, dreams desperate dreams of summer.

Redid the moodbaord for the Venetians as I was mightily displeased with the previous attempt. This one is much better. Also please enjoy Cristof’s Continued Journey of Being Stupid About His Lover.