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Pia rarely considered Harry Potter to become a maneuver of self-control. He would resort in hitting walls and doors regularly [covered up with a Rolling Stone poster at this very moment]. He would resort his anger elsewhere, his frustration elsewhere, but never at something as abstract as assessing the problem or something as mediocre as a film's mere offer.
But Pia's knuckles are busted again and his fingers sing the chorus of needles and pins. He can't take his knuckles out of a ball—his fist is locked in spasm. He cradles his arm to his body, supplying sufficient body heat to it to try and straighten it out, but it doesn't help.
He cradled his baby-like hand all the way from the hostel front door to the Mariano front door. He waits antsy on the porch, stepping side to side to revert his pain into movement. He will forget about his hand in a second, he just needs a distraction before he kisses his knuckles again.
The door finally opens, but there are no twins to fend off this time. It's a small, aged woman, not all that taller than the doorknob she holds onto. She's a robust woman with starkly black hair tied back into a chignon at the base of her heart-shaped skull. Her body is small and her stance is lacking, but her eyes are as wide as the peripheral horizon on the ocean. Her face is puckered in a strict poker face, but her mussed eyebrows are curiously elevated at the uninvited guest.
"Afternoon," she greets flatly, a thick Italian accent segueing over her English. "Can I help?"
Pia is so enthralled by this tiny woman that he forgets to speak for a split second. He swings his arms behind his body to hide his fist, afraid she might think less.
"Eh, yes...hi, ma'am, I was wondering if Roman is home."
"You are?" She eggs, swinging her body weight from one leg to the other to lean against the door.
"Pia...I'm one of Roman's friends."
"Pia who?"
"Meyer."
Her strict posture softens immediately when she bears the entire meaning of his name, as if his name is a narcotic. She steps aside to allow the boy in.
"Come in," she says. "I'm Roman's mother. Helena."
Pia wants to be charming; he wants to make chivalrous comments on her age and tell her how young she seems, but how-many children can do work on one's physical appearance. "It's so nice to meet you, ma'am," is all Pia settles for. He doesn't want to leave a dent in his first impression—he wants to seem decent in the eyes of Roman's parents, at least in his fantasies.
"Roman is in the left wing," she explains, "in the music room. I don't know if you know where that is."
"I'm not entirely sure."
"I'll show you." She gestures for him to follow. Pia teeters after the small Italian lady, shuffling a lot quicker than he anticipated.
"You're the rugby player, right?" She asks. "The one who has Western Provence and South African colors?"
