alfred

May, 1901

Vincenza carried the empty water jug on her head as she entered the village. Wet roof tiles shone all around her after the brief afternoon shower. There had been thunder. A bolt of lightning crossed the sky, jagged and horizontal. Vincenza crossed herself, and touched her lips to the gold crucifix that hung from her neck. There was the smell of garlic and roasting coffee in the air. A songbird warbled.
When she reached the well, clear water was flowing from the marble overflow spout. The white stone was worn smooth from hundreds of years of friction.
"It's amazing how water, so soft and lovely, can do that to stone, is it not my dear?"
He was sitting just out of her view, at a table in the cafe, sipping a glass of brandy.
Vincenza turned to him. Her thick eyebrows dipped together in a reflexive gesture of curiosity and wonder.
"How is it that you know what I am thinking?" she asked, placing the jug under the flow of slivery water.
"This is only what I hoped you were thinking," he said, bringing the glass to his lips. There was the liquid flash of amber in his hand, "But I am absolutely delighted that I was correct."
Water splashed over Vincenza's bare feet. The man noted the color of her skin. the shape of her legs, the way she had placed her hands on her hips. A defiant gesture.
"May I draw you?" he asked.
She did not answer, but only spat once in the direction of the harbor. In one graceful motion she raised the jug to her shoulder. He watched the muscles in her arms and calves and neck move with subtle power. As she walked up the cobble-stoned way, he quickly sketched her, the cant in her waist, the jug perched on her right shoulder, the perfect triangle of the left arm and hand placed on her hip.