Trapped by the Mafia

10. Skin I Am in

Photoshop and filters are great, but great skin is better.

—Popular wisdom

***

In my excitement, I rush around the tiny place bumping into each piece of furniture multiple times. But whatever. What matters is that I'm gathering supplies for my next move in the game against Matteo. The urge to win takes a hold of my heart. I don't know what the hell we're playing, I don't know how to score points, or what the end goal is, but I must play it to win.

If I lose, I hope it would be in a pleasant manner, where I yield to Matteo's sexual appetite and we live happily ever after.

That's a distant possibility for an unknow future, however. Here and now, Matteo has made his move, and I must arm myself for mine.

Cardboard, scissors, wire, carnations... I have everything I need to counter his offensive.

Who would have thought that my florist gig would furnished me with a skillset for upstaging a mafia guy? Or that mafiosi take keen interest in carnations. Stars align so oddly at times, they send us unexpected gifts. And we must take them, even if we fear they're poisonous, or life isn't worth living.

Blushing an thrilled, I craft a flower half-mask, in the best carnival tradition. But a mascaraed can't start just yet, for I'm pulling all stops.

Bronzer, lipstick, mascara—check!

Thoughts of Matteo keeps me awake better than a hundred espressos would. I'm like a five-year-old who's just discovered finger-painting, I get more and more ideas, dolling myself up.

I find a skullcap and cover it with flowers too, to complete my costume.

What am I cosplaying at? A Goddess of Carnations? Of carnal desire? Carnations and carnal go together like Matteo and sex. Oh, boy.

In my inflamed imagination, Matteo stretches on my bed, on top of the remaining carnations, watching me work.

One long leg is thrown over the other, bent at the knee, toes as long as the fingers on his hands. The top two buttons of his black shirt are unfastened to let him breathe. The contrast between him, and me decked out in the carnations is stark.

Instead of shaking my head to chase away the hallucination, I feed it with daydreams until the mirage solidifies. Matteo's presence in my bedroom is almost palpable. His startling eyes follow me as I set my tripod, and I wag my finger at him. "Soon."

The figment of my imagination waits patiently for me to assume each preposterous pose they teach the models and chuckles a throaty chuckle of approval. His hands are there to massage my bare shoulders until my anxiety evaporates.

The drill sergeant of sensibility inside my head huffs from the sidelines, trying to dim my mojo.

Get real?

No way.

Stop this idiocy.

Watch me, buddy. The idiocy is going full steam ahead!

I fall on the carnation strewn bed, backward, arms outstretched. If only Matteo was actually there and could catch me, my happiness would be complete. I squint, imagining it...

The camera clicks at even intervals as my daydreams intensify.

I arch and twist my body, crumple the shirt against imaginary Matteo's warm skin, pulling it up in delirium. Naturally, his hand does not stay idle either, making a speedy run up my thigh. It stays on target, stays on target...