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“I did. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. So technically, that tart is mine. Just like all your kisses are,” he says before capturing my mouth in a searing kiss.
Okay, the best breakfast is Jon’s kisses laced with Nutella.
CHAPTER FOUR
JON
I have never climbed so many steps or crossed as many bridges as I did today. It’s part of the charm of Venice. We got turned around quite a few times while we were walking, but we haven’t seen a street that wasn’t picturesque, and that David didn’t want a picture of.
He’s using an Instax camera that looks like our parents' old analogue cameras, and I swear he sees most of the city through his lens than his eyes.
We’d turned down a small calle and found a courtyard filled with metal bear statues. It was so whimsical and enchanting, and unexpected. We had taken a few silly selfies with the bears, and David’s smile made my heart happy. This was what I wanted to give my man every second of every day. I want him to be happy beyond measure because that’s what he gives me. He makes me happy. So very happy… and horny.
As the sun is setting, his eyes have lost some of their sparkle, and I know he’s tired, but he is adamant that he’s fine and doesn’t want to return to the hotel.
We’ve been wandering through a small store tucked away close to a bridge off the tourist path, and I see him moving back and forth to admire one particular piece of Murano glass artwork. A deep-blue aquamarine and clear glass sculpture of two swans on a blue-green glass pedestal. Both birds extend their necks, and one looks up at the other. I see David and me reflected in the graceful artwork—protection and devotion—I work hard to deserve his devotion and love, always protecting him as my man. Trying to smooth his path in life…
I want that sculpture in our home, a unique honeymoon souvenir. Swans mate for life, and that’s what I want from David—a life together forever.
I walk over to the store owner as soon as David’s looking at the sculpture again.
“Scusi, signore. You have a beautiful store. I want to purchase the swan sculpture on display there,” I say, looking over my shoulder at David and the swans.
“Si certo, signore. It would be a great pleasure. Can I wrap it up for you?” the elderly man asks.
“It’s a present. Would it be possible to have it delivered to the hotel we’re staying at, the Hotel Rialto?”
“Of course, of course, signore. It will take a day or two for me to send it. It needs to be wrapped carefully since you will be travelling with the piece, si?” he replies.
“That would be great, thank you, signore,” I reply, giving him my name and number while trying to discreetly pay the man before wandering back to David, where he is admiring another piece. This one is more abstract, the glass thick and filled with red-hued swirls, as if the glass captured fire.
“I wish I could buy everything in the store and have it shipped to mine in Cape Town. It could be my signature, you know. ‘David De Witt Designs always uses Murano art in his interiors,’” David says in a deeper timbre than his normal voice.
“That’s not a bad idea, baby. We could always come back before we leave and get his card. But I think you should look at more galleries before deciding on a vendor, and we still have to visit Murano Island. Maybe you’ll see other artwork that you like better there? We’re here for three days. You don’t have to cram everything into one day,” I say, pulling him closer and easing his frame under mine.
I love that David is shorter and slighter than I am. It makes me feel stronger and ignites a flame to protect and provide for him.
“Come on, babe. I’m tired. Let’s take a break at a small cafe, and maybe we could indulge in some authentic tiramisu and cappuccino,” I suggest leading him out of the store. It’s only three thirty in the afternoon, but the sky is already turning to dusk, and I chuckle. Being this far north on the globe is going to fuck with my head.
“The locals don’t drink coffee in the afternoon, Jonathan,” David says, looking up at me through his dark lashes, and I notice the fatigue there.
“It’s a good thing we’re not locals then because I need a dose of caffeine as you refuse to head back to the hotel for a rest.”
“We can rest when we’re back in Cape Town. We’re in Venice!” he says, throwing his hands in the air and spinning around on the cobbled path.
“Okay, tough guy. Let’s find a cafe then.”
* * *
The sun’s set and the winter breeze is cold coming off the grand canal. David’s snuggled up in his black puffer jacket and flannel scarf, tucked in close to my side as we wander down the paved walkway next to the canal. The lights are flickering, reflecting off the dark water. Music and laughter are pouring from restaurants as we make our way back to the hotel.
The cappuccino and tiramisu had done the trick, and both David and I had spent the rest of the day meandering through the calle and drifting into any small stores that caught our eye. David had bought a marbled notebook and some Burano lace fabric for his mom. But David is nudging me towards a specific area. His Murano glass store.
“Baby, I’m sure the store will be closed now. It’s late,” I say.
“I just want to see if the swans are still there. Maybe they’re not as exquisite as I thought they were earlier,” he replies, his voice muffled by the scarf he’s pulled over his mouth.
“David, you’re cold. I’m taking you back to the hotel.”
