(Rovigo)
1
The evening was shrouded in a light fog that seemed to melt between the houses of the city.
Eva raised her collar over her face and continued walking quickly toward the illuminated building at the end of the street. She stopped under a streetlight, ahe took off his coat in fronti pTo show off the elegance of the dress, she quickly retouched her hair with her hand and plastered a smile on her face. Satisfied, she entered the colorful confusion of that party connected to the vernissage.
The first person who came to her and hugged her was the last person she wanted to meet, but it would have been impossible to avoid it, since that was her evening. The inauguration was to present his latest paintings to the critics, who would have praised him as always. To friends, who would have petted him, and to potential buyers, who would have cuddled him to get a discount. But he, the great painter from Treviso, was above all this. He could afford it, not only because he was over sixty, but above all because he knew he was a genius. And as such, he placed himself above others, with his arrogant know-it-all attitude that he poured out on the people and women in his life.
Eva was the last of a long series and in her presumption of love, she hoped that it would be the last. But she knew that, soon, she was destined to become the second to last.
He returned the kiss on the cheek, the formal smile, and walked away with the excuse of admiring his latest artistic masterpieces. As she paused to stare at a painting, the one furthest from him, she tried to remember how it all began.
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