At the Caffe del Doge, over cappuccinos and cream-filled coronets, we argued about something, I can’t remember what. My memory is fuzzy these days. Maybe we were miffed by all the tourists, crowding out even St. Mark’s iconic pigeons. Maybe we hadn’t slept well in the water-logged hotel, on a mattress made out of human hair. Maybe the foul air had made us testy. But what I do remember, after a blissful silence, was the cream on your chin, and the gasp from your lips, like a felon viewing Venice from the Bridge of Sighs one final time, before the execution.
Sorry Sal, I think you missed the mark – beginning to end. I suggest you do some editing and a little re-write to clarify your point.
The comment above I agree with a bit, I don’t exactly get it, but I love the start and the middle, and most of the end. It’s cut short in its prime, and it’s so lovely to have some narrative, rather than lots of bursts of pithy dialogue. This is like the beginning of a really good short story, which isn’t chopping words to fit the editor’s limit. But its end is difficult to interpret. I really wanted to read more.
I loved it! Well done!
Nice write but dependent, I believe, on the reader bothering to check out April 1355. The idea of microfiction – and indeed any fiction – is to bring the reader to you, not send them off to research.