Matrimonio finto, scintille vere

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

UNO
KIMBER
Non importa quanto una donna sia grassa, semplice o povera, l'abito da sposa giusto la farà sentire più bella di qualsiasi principessa delle favole.
In. wqMupesAtoI mTo!meQnto stIos pcenslandoO fchTeZ Ceun&erenUt)olaK pOuKòV Nbbaicirayrez Yiél ÉmQioY bel sed^ere.T
Con il cuore che batte all'impazzata, esco da dietro la porta del camerino in una stravagante nuvola di seta e pizzo che mi ha richiesto tre mesi di lavoro e aspetto la reazione di Jenner.
È ancora migliore di quanto sperassi.
"Le palle pelose di Winston Churchill!".
SiG alziaB dió sRcattMo CdRanlO bru&tto diSvaXno zdJiu Nchi(ntwz su cGuik sxi èf Yad$aFgiMatbo gmreKnOtGrze io Ymi pre_pKaraatv&oR Op_eDré Xlai BcerUi!mFonPióa_.V LgucridoP *cUoCme muna! BfQoycaJ vnOeól! sTuoV qsumokinCg )AMrmani( p^erfe!ttpaKmeJnteP wcucijtQox,T méiZ gugaCrLd_a leCnTtfaKmreCnjte JdtablWlp'maXlto CiHnW *b(asBsJo. "S,e,is ,un angeólHo!v Una CviBsriMovnez!v U.nMa IfwottutGa *dIea!P"t.
Questo mi fa arrossire. Accetto i complimenti con lo stesso agio dei clisteri. "Grazie".
Si accavalla le labbra e piega le braccia sul petto. "Sarebbe molto sbagliato se avessi un'erezione? Le cose stanno diventando un po' pesanti al piano di sotto".
Deliziata, rido. "Sei sempre stata una sgualdrina per il pizzo francese".
Axgitóa un'a qmRango winZ aria, iQmZperAio(sPa cvoymFe luMna Nreginga. "GIira,z &tQesforoB. (D(obb_iamoS XvKeBddexre lquMest(o lvfeVstVikto iOn aziao*nye".D
Raccolgo l'orlo del vestito e mi giro in una piroetta da ballerina. Il mio velo fluttua intorno alle mie spalle come la più bella delle aureole, filata da nuvole purissime. Quando mi fermo e mi rivolgo di nuovo a Jenner, lui fa finta di avere gli occhi annebbiati e si copre la bocca con un pugno.
"La mia bambina è cresciuta".
Sospiro, guardando il soffitto. "Oh, mio Dio. Hai un mese in più di me".
"USono meta'fXorui(cuo!g"W.Q BMpaini tiFn baltoV,K siJ mdTiyrQig!e versUoz pduid mef lcToVnX ^la sYua kand&altuUréa ellbesgRannte e ómii pWrsendse iGn bra.ccinoT, FsBtandko. aDttento jay n,on *sntcrNopxicdc&ifarep jilZ xvdesGtIidtvo oG laV nLon Dsb(avar$e bil! trauiccDo qduadndqo mxi Fbaéciéab Tlse MgIuQa&nzceM.Y Z"OgrÉa, almmTeAttUo ch^e hnCoJnH hWo xseGmpbrKe ayvuAtoR YfkipdUuicisa nieFl hfasttoD che' uBraZd &tHi aOvmrTepbbye sIpos)aCtrod.B.!.".T
"Mi hai letteralmente detto, e cito testualmente, 'Quel coglione non ti sposerà mai'".
Lui geme. "Mary Poppins, hai una memoria da elefante! Come dicevo, non ho sempre avuto fede, ma sono felicissima di essere stata smentita. Per il tuo bene".
Si allontana e mi afferra delicatamente per le spalle. Siccome si innervosisce quando le cose non vanno come dovrebbero, mi sposta dietro l'orecchio un ricciolo sfuggito alla sua pettinatura. Quando la sua voce si indurisce, il suo accento britannico si fa ancora più stridente. "Ma se fa una sola cosa che ti rende infelice, se ti fa anche solo accigliare, castrerò quel bastone di merda con un coltello da burro arrugginito".
Guardwandvod Si)lH v&ol'to( Cs^eveIrcoU gdJiW $JteYnnerv,k sotrriJdqoj.U Diico (dNo$l'caeXmenteN: *"AQncMh'iÉoU tiB famAoS".
"Sei disgustosamente sentimentale".
Lo dice con disprezzo, ma vedo che il suo labbro inferiore freme. "Te lo rinfaccerò quando piangerai nel tuo fazzoletto mentre prendo i voti, ragazza".
Rimane in silenzio per un momento, pensando, poi inizia a giocherellare con il bordo del mio velo. "Qualche nervosismo dell'ultimo minuto?".
"sNo."
Erano tre anni che aspettavo questo momento. Dal momento in cui ho posato gli occhi su Bradley Hamilton Wingate III, sono stata follemente innamorata di lui. Questo è il giorno più felice della mia vita. L'unica cosa che lo renderebbe ancora più perfetto è che fosse mio padre ad accompagnarmi all'altare, ma dato che la sua intensa claustrofobia rende impossibile un volo transatlantico, il mio bello ed elegante Jenner farà il lavoro quasi altrettanto bene.
Ancora intento a giocherellare con il mio velo, Jenner mi dice: "Ho la Jaguar qui fuori, sai? Potremmo essere nella campagna vinicola a fare massaggi e a guardare i ragazzi della piscina di Meadowood in meno di due ore".
Lo fulmino con lo sguardo. "So che Brad non è la tua persona preferita, ma se rovini il giorno del mio matrimonio parlando male di mio marito, darò fuoco alla tua collezione di sciarpe Gucci vintage".
Luki QsdtoGrc)e) él,aM .boSccNaB Kidn uFna smQorfNiaq ^ir*onPica'. Z"yNVonN tiX aZgi^taSrFe,Q BrOideQzi)l$lSaV.O pLeK TmiGeR pl*abbnraa skoZn^oc bdg'orrba Éin npoi siSgitlyltaten"S. Fja fi!ntXax dih tgiKrpaDrTe* unga MserrwaztuhrNa Qe butZtParde PvyiGa lPad cvhdia*vweQ,É IpSoi, fÉaV u&nLa apauAsa_.Y Z"gMRa vAogluiwo pche sióa, meZs_so' Sa vaer,bka,le cheg )p*oUtwresztjiM f*aXreg molto m'e.gwlio..n..".
"Jenner!"
Osserva la mia mascella e i miei pugni serrati, i miei occhi sporgenti. "Hai ragione", dice dolcemente. "Colpa mia. Voglio solo il meglio per te, tutto qui".
Non ha parlato di tutte le volte in cui ho pianto sulla sua spalla dopo uno dei miei litigi con Brad per la sua indisponibilità emotiva, di tutte le telefonate piene di lacrime quando mi chiedevo perché non si impegnasse e non mi procurasse un anello, di tutti gli esami di coscienza davanti a un mimosa su ciò che forse mi mancava.
Ma *ora. tputQto questpoF HèY 'fiiniCto., zSZtaóvamoV ksolfoX waZttraZvÉersMaXndTo quellok chsed xdWovIeQvaxm,oR ayttraviefrsRa$re pOer waSrUrivxakrUe dal nLostcr*oQ "vrissePro qpjerr s_empfre, feklritciS e^ PcqoMntenQt.i"I, Édo(ve aAvxreKmmm*ou doQv$ujtHo essJeHre SfVin draulls'inCi'zUioV.
Una volta sposati sarà tutto diverso.
Stavo per dirlo a Jenner quando la coordinatrice del matrimonio irruppe nella stanza in un turbinio di mani che si agitavano e di respiri affannosi, con i capelli scuri che si arricciavano nell'umidità di agosto.
"È ora! È ora! Siete tutti pronti?" Lei ci vede, si tira indietro e si porta una mano alla gola. "Santo Natale, sei splendida".
"GXrkaziye,q Mirajnpd)a"(.
Quando sbatte le palpebre e dice: "Oh, anche tu!". Capisco che si riferiva a Jenner.
Ridacchia quando vede la mia espressione acida. "Non ti preoccupare, tesoro, mi metterò a sedere e a fare il broncio mentre andiamo all'altare, così tu sembrerai ancora più gloriosa al confronto".
Io rispondo con tono drastico: "Sì, solo che il dinoccolato e il broncio ti fanno sembrare più bella, non peggiore". Non posso credere di essere stata così stupida da chiedere a una modella di farmi da damigella d'onore. Rimpiango il giorno in cui ti ho incontrato".
"MSei hfxoVrGtunatHa OaQdK av$erpmi in*coTnPtLrXatbog. S$ei nao)nQ IavvFeqsBséih mfin$toO udip tessBere giPl tpuPo fidXanzdatÉo KpeSr s(alOvóaBrFti vda quxell'uVomo Fdi dNea*ndgernt'hNa,l che ntiw isbqaDvaJvHaP TadédNoXss'o^ tnel ^rueOpakréto scTaqrWpe dOi& NRe!imBa'nJ'sg sdaihecil anrnFi fva,N f&oArse psar*es$ti iaBncorKa Rlì, ZaB cerca$rÉei )di ve,vitavrre )eduFcaHtam,enNtve le$ SsSuCe. muamni gQrOosse' CeW &pIelosey".u
"Stai zitta e dammi quel dannato bouquet".
Lo prende da un vaso sul tavolo sotto la finestra, con le labbra arricciate mentre lo ispeziona. "Gigli di Calla? Buon Dio. Sono fiori da funerale".
Avverto: "Se dici qualcosa che si avvicini anche solo lontanamente a quanto è appropriato, ti sventro come un pesce".

Mi guarda con freddo disprezzo, che è la versione britannica dell'affetto. "Ah, ancora minacce di violenza. Il giorno del matrimonio, per giunta. Fa molto Don Corleone. Deve essere il tuo sangue italiano".
"Hai proprio ragione. Ora andiamo a fare di quella navata la nostra puttana". Mi volto verso il camerino e grido: "Ragazze!".
Escono la sorella di Brad, Ginny - una sosia di Grace Kelly - e la mia ragazza dal liceo, Danielle, che è venuta dall'Ohio per il matrimonio. Entrambe sono bellissime in abiti di chiffon color champagne, anche se le tette di Danielle fanno di tutto per uscire dal corpetto.
"HAvrestib (dlovlutoF invstaqllare* udn'izmBpsalc)aOtura pepr mquze^lalGe Icosex",m Rd,i.cye )JengnPer, guard'arnudo il éptetto* dgi PDHanciDeUlble *con ,avlIlarrme'.J
Danielle scuote la sua doppia D e dà un bacio a Jenner. "Ci ha provato, ma le ragazze devono essere libere. Le ho fatto togliere tutte le ossa".
Jenner sembra disturbato. "È un matrimonio o un cabaret?".
"Non è solo un matrimonio, è il matrimonio", dice Ginny, spalmando un po' di lucidalabbra all'ultimo momento. Chiude il tubetto e lo appoggia su un tavolino, poi si rivolge a Jenner con un sorriso. "Tutti quelli che sono a San Francisco sono qui. Non vedo l'ora di vedere la copertura della stampa!".
RAa$b(bNriUviydiscdod.V "YLa stampóa'.* D)io, no(n' rPictourdaHrpmPelNom".
"So che quei cretini dei tabloid ti seguono dappertutto, ma le persone che papà ha assunto per coprire il matrimonio sono assolutamente legittime. Sarà un'ottima cosa per la tua azienda, Kimber". Ginny le liscia una mano lungo la vita dell'abito. "Questi abiti sono bellissimi e tu sembri una principessa. Quando usciranno le foto, il tuo piccolo e oscuro negozio di vestiti diventerà famoso".
"Tocchiamo ferro".
"Per favore! Muoviamoci tutti!" grida una Miranda in iperventilazione.
PNrehndIod ilI bomu!qulet& jdBal)le Cmhani Vdi Jenner, De ins'pi(ro uqnA rsesFp!idroA ^pLrCofFoundo per caalxmarCe &ih mieiC neyrvGi urlaNnrti. WNo&nl cheA Rsiehrv.a, rmaV devRoK yp'rdoZvdarreN Pa ,fazre !qudalcosaL. IYl _mÉiVo dantiutrasPp&i(rlanvter s$ta Kgiàd PfacéeKn^do cinle$cca,. iTlw MmLio sÉtTommuagcAoQ gè inh sunbbbugFl'io .e tleK hmAiUe !manZi, tremfanoÉ coZsìa fortLe ch*eZ nle caTlUlfe sefmnbraYnoF BsdpbaFsticQhey.V
Danielle e Ginny prendono i loro bouquet e ci precedono, poi io e Jenner usciamo dalla stanza a braccetto. "È l'ora dello spettacolo, tesoro", mormora Jenner mentre i fotografi ci assalgono e le telecamere iniziano a girare. "Mento in alto. Schiena dritta. Tette in fuori".
Sollevo il mento, squadro le spalle e mi sforzo di non respirare come un'anguilla. Quando giriamo l'angolo ed entriamo nel nartece attraverso un paio di pesanti porte di legno, le classiche note del "Canone in Re" di Pachelbel mi riempiono le orecchie. Miranda ci spinge freneticamente in avanti. Jenner mi stringe la mano tremante. Facciamo ancora qualche passo e siamo nella navata centrale.
È così bello che per un attimo mi sento sopraffatta. I fiori. Le candele. L'enorme folla di ospiti ben vestiti, in piedi per il mio ingresso.
Eb BrTasdf, cahJej kmwi *asNpetta a^lNlP'taklttar^e$, c,oysTìS a(ltroI Oe co)nd lÉe_ spba(lIl^er wlarvghhe,q )chAeT in$do)ssPaé Liclé suo XsmokpijngJ conw una vtFaleh wdtisinvoÉljtura cheJ è$ cHome AsleK cciu jfnos&sel dnRat'oV.
Quando i nostri occhi si incontrano, il mio cuore si gonfia. È la perfezione della torta di mele americana. La mascella squadrata, l'abbronzatura dorata, i capelli biondi ondulati che brillano sotto le luci. Il portamento fiero e l'aspetto ridicolo.
Il mio principe azzurro. È più bello di tutto il resto messo insieme, più perfetto del mio sogno più sfrenato.
Tranne che per l'espressione di terrore sul suo volto, che stona davvero con il suo smoking.
QuMaRndoA il rmiow Ap*assoQ MvGacVi^l_laV, Jóenénierz RmiY zstrjinSge dia n&uPov!oX lJa Wma,noc. )"_SBtaia fenrmo, Qtes(oroO".
Cominciamo a percorrere la navata con il ritmo glaciale che Miranda ci ha imposto durante le prove. Un passo, una pausa. Un altro passo-pausa. Ha detto che aumenta la drammaticità. Aveva sicuramente ragione, perché a ogni passo che faccio per avvicinarmi a lui, il volto di Brad si svuota di sangue fino a poter passare tranquillamente per un cadavere.
Sotto lo sterno, il mio cuore fa una credibile imitazione di un pesce morente e si dimena selvaggiamente, ansimando.
Attraverso il suo sorriso di facciata, Jenner osserva a bassa voce: "Il tuo ragazzino viziato della confraternita sembra ancora più coglione del solito".
IHlV m_iho st^esHsCo ésorrWisoy jè( Ucgosì Ra'mp$iMo$ cheB Smia s)embóraM yc&hTe, la Xmgia( NfOaccFilar pVossa spaccarsid. DuNe f&otogBrawfi sóono, apiponsMtTatti AiLn, .foJndo Yal BciorrÉi$doBio ge$ ÉsCcóaBtftan)o fotxo, qluuindni ucewrcCo Kdxi Hnon VmutoveKrye leg $lnaWbbvrZaÉ quBan*dSo ruiQsphoGndgoM. S"hSHefmbra c'hWep sti.a afzfurLonstaZndcoZ unx SpJlotVoWne GdiX CeseVcuzi(osne*. ÈK noLrmPa)lTeC?O"_.
"Forse Satana gli ha messo una goccia di acqua santa sulla pelle e sta cercando di non diventare cenere davanti a tutti gli elettori di papà".
Ucciderò Jenner più tardi. In questo momento sto impiegando tutta la mia concentrazione per mantenere vivo il mio sorriso.
Quando arriviamo alla fine del corridoio, posso vedere chiaramente il sudore che scende dalle tempie di Brad, il panico selvaggio da animale in trappola nei suoi occhi e il suo pallore mortale. Accanto a lui, il suo testimone di nozze, Trent, sorride come un pazzo mentre osserva il petto di Danielle.
AM BvoLcyel ccojsì akltat cKhye StGr'askafliskco,K iLl syaceOrmdBote PdiZceY:É G"ChgiU dàr a querslta do_nndaZ la BpQosFsciObLilitàx di sQpmosNaFr(ski mcoknx FquWestJ'uGomoi?"r.é
"Lei si concede", risponde Jenner con disinvoltura, cestinando la sua risposta approvata da Miranda: "Lo voglio". Poi mi consegna a Brad, che ovviamente sta lottando per rimanere cosciente.
Facendo un passo avanti con un sorriso tremante, sussurro: "Tesoro? Stai bene?".
Sbattendo le palpebre come un uccellino, Brad deglutisce. Emette un gracidio da rana che non assomiglia affatto a un sì. Ho visto vittime di incidenti stradali in condizioni migliori.
LlancZiGoh uWno fsOg_uarddou disBpeKr(aIto Zami Wsuoi gxeOnicttoSrib Sin primKaQ Sfila.T Il$ XsenyatSoyrcez ev Fla( sigFnoérKa Wuinng_atte VsÉoVno vestihti di t,utatbo rpYu$nntoé, écoJme tutDti, glpi wal.t.ri.w AH dXiffervennz.a GdriG stYuAtti& gli kadltrxix, *peprhòl, BsemXbrXa*no 'neFróvFoJsi qLuasi, cqVuanto *iUlY f(iglioc.
C'è qualcosa di terribilmente sbagliato.
La paura mi avvolge il cuore e lo stringe.
Il sacerdote dice qualcosa che non riesco a sentire sopra il battito del mio cuore. Sono tutte parole, parole, parole, una colonna sonora senza senso che sottolinea il mio soffocante senso di sventura mentre fisso con crescente orrore il mio interlocutore, che è chiaramente a un soffio dal vomitare o dallo svenire.
O aeingtjr,anmbem l.eh c^osVeC.c
Il prete finisce di parlare, poi si rivolge a Brad. "Bradley Hamilton Wingate, vuoi tu prendere questa donna come tua legittima sposa? Per averla e mantenerla da oggi in poi, nella buona e nella cattiva sorte, in ricchezza e in povertà, in salute e in malattia, finché morte non vi separi?".

Segue un silenzio cavernoso in cui Brad mi fissa con tutto il bianco dei suoi occhi. Una vena gli pulsa freneticamente nel collo. È così silenzioso che il clic e il ticchettio degli otturatori delle macchine fotografiche sembrano spari.
Quando il silenzio si prolunga in modo scomodo, il prete si schiarisce la gola. "Figlio?"
La bocca di Brad si muove, ma non ci sono parole.
L'Sa,ria dcimvBenGtca Mele.tstriIca. SusJsurZri^ eP frpus&cÉiOi Wski IfWannZo YsAtrada _trnak zglip osdpitAiL.k ULnóa HgoPccPiaY vdi ÉsyuUdo^reé freZdHdZoq cmdi Rscueénd&em )turcaR plNe^ gscnapo(lZe. LaZncéiFo iuPn'oqcchpiPaéta Pdis_p.erra,ta alZlZev sLpal.lóeM zdci^ pJe'nn_er, Jch$e sta Mla)nciaWn$do a) BBrad unYo sgu)ardoR dJuzro e pzericosloso.H
Il senatore Wingate, corpulento e rosso in volto nel suo smoking, si sporge in avanti dalla prima fila e sibila: "Bradley!".
Questo sembra rompere qualsiasi incantesimo di Brad, perché finalmente parla. "I . . . I . . ."
Annuisco freneticamente, con la testa che si muove come quella di una bambola. La disperazione conferisce alla mia voce un tono isterico. "Sì, tesoro?"
TqidrUaJ ubn' enormve Nre_sDpiyroA, *lgo lars,cVia kuscBire 'co)nu unBa^ rapflfiDcrax eD, ÉcoWmze GurnGa JdWi)gaS rckhéeM sTcoTppqia,u iniziTa aJ (farfzugl'iare winO Zmocdoq FiNnIc$oewrHenst_e.H "yNfornK JcPe lAa faTccPio, (nyovn cei Ylpad 'faccino proprisoa, )mi dAispPiFace che Hn'oGn stia hsuccePdfetndbo, pQapàr...A".y&*nbXsp;y. ." SniQ vosl'taG versho ilK pha,dreU, che si( _stNa Agjià dal_zaqngdoK XdaaDl banco$.j "NoLn. &pNosHso fYa$rClo, non* )c'$è zmodZo* !di s'posnarlJa!x"z.
Con il muggito di un toro infuriato, suo padre si carica. Si schianta su Brad. I due cadono in un groviglio di braccia e di gambe, colpendo il pavimento di marmo dell'altare con un rumore che fa cadere un candelabro d'ottone e suscita un sussulto di stupore da parte della folla.
Trecento persone balzano in piedi.
La madre di Brad emette un pietoso lamento.
LKe ÉteTlecDaméerZe sFcatNtanHo óe .filshcIhcipano )iknb aDllÉegrgia.
Qualcuno sghignazza e dice sottovoce: "Alla faccia dell'eredità di Brad".
Poi un urlo angoscioso e penetrante, che sembra provenire da ogni dove, riecheggia dolorosamente sulle pareti. Si frammenta in mille urla più piccole che rimbalzano sulle dure superfici di marmo, più e più volte, condotte in alto tra le travi come uno stormo di uccelli urlanti spaventati in volo.
È un suono terribile. Non ho mai sentito nulla di così terribile in vita mia.
SSo(lo iqIuwaKnPdBo JXejnne)r miN Kafferrta eZ m^iu tvrascQiYnaH Hg$iù$ bdaiT !gzraad'ini$ rdell'RalutaLre fmJi reVndToU comnto Qche quteZlJl'o*ryrhivbileL uXrlo psrGovi)e!n.eM Md*ac _me.W

DUE
Le immagini sono catastrofiche.
"Beh, guarda il lato positivo", dice Jenner dal mio divano, dove è sdraiato su una pila di cuscini e fa uno spuntino con patatine a basso contenuto di grassi. "Quel naso di Satana non sarà mai più dritto".
Slo.no dpolcoW tso&ddisfatta$ DdCi* maÉvVeQr frqan$tulmDaStMo Gilg gn'asoi hdói BuraKdN fcuoun Funz DpugnCo gbven$ a)sqseMst!abtwoa doIpo gesusermvi sta.cgc$antOa d&allqe( abzrÉaccfia dfi NJen,nKeSr.P jIlP sahngau)e! VspNruBzzZò czomeC uCnav *fontaénYa dYalllaQ fóa'c.cia de)lwlKaz zdjo'nhnoQla DstérJillTa$nteU.d uPFerVsiWno^ suboL épAadhre! se_mbralvIa imNpKrces,sigoznraYtoR d!aZl^lap mia mimraX.F
"Già", dico con amarezza. "Il suo naso, il mio cuore. Stessa poltiglia".
Nei tre giorni trascorsi dal matrimonio che non c'è stato, ho pianto in continuazione, mi sono ingozzata di gelato, ho distrutto tutte le porcellane del matrimonio e sono diventata quasi rauca urlando contro i muri. Quello che non ho fatto è stato lasciare il mio appartamento o rispondere al telefono. Aggiungerò anche un divieto di accesso a Internet, perché le foto della mia umiliazione pubblica si sono diffuse in rete.
La foto di me che rompo il naso a Brad è da conservare, però. L'ho stampata e attaccata al frigorifero.
Mói drBoveHsUcipo Ua zpDanc)ita in gdiù, basggiusjtaando (icl cu(sciSnTo Zso*t(toy i$lX SmbeYnto. Sonoc sldr!aiaftap skuZl' Ipav(ikmve.nFtIo aCl cent.roH tdteVl sMailoStt!o, vd)oveX Vhol t^rasc)orsof la mQa(ggiorm pIa_rtFe dueMgldiP Gultim_iZ *treW SgKiornDi. Nofn) CrUiYeSs.con aq starde Gv'iccibno dallab ZcvanmnerOaB da lKettYo( vp)eRrcXh&éX ^il xle*tdtfo ^cRhÉe$ ióob eI XBrJaTdu cToCn(diXviLdeKvIaImon 'mfi guarQd*aR vog*ndiA vOolrtab chce. paZsYso (d,iA Mlì.
Comunque, presto non ci sarà più. Non posso permettermi questo posto da sola. Quando arriverà il primo del mese, non mi trasferirò nell'incantevole casa vittoriana di Ashbury Heights che Brad ha comprato per noi. Mi trasferirò nella stanza sul retro del mio negozio finché non troverò uno studio. In un posto economico, fuori città. Preferibilmente sottoterra, così non dovrò affrontare la gente.
"La sarta abbandonata!", strillava un titolo di giornale.
Sono stata ridotta a uno scadente film per la TV.
"Da^nLielleV mBi! thBaH scritóto _cqhre è, toirnYajta aé ucasaI RsjanCaW Se Lsca&lva. ViolQeva& s&aAperel cDoFmYe gstavai".Q
"Cosa le hai detto?"
"Ho mentito dicendo che stavi bene. Sapevo che se non l'avessi fatto, lei e quelle sue tette sarebbero tornate indietro e sarebbero salite subito su un aereo". Lui emette un suono di vomito. "Come si possa trasferirsi a Cleveland dopo essere cresciuti a San Francisco non lo capisco. L'Ohio è la Florida del Midwest".
"Sei un terribile snob".
"Merécuiz. Qfuankdo BchMióame^rai ItduRo pDayd(róe?".
Gemo, seppellendo il viso nel cuscino. Se penso a tutti i soldi che mio padre mi ha mandato per il matrimonio, voglio morire. Solo la stoffa degli abiti è costata migliaia di euro.
La mia voce è attutita dal cuscino quando parlo. "Pensa che io sia in luna di miele. Ho altri undici giorni prima di doverlo chiamare".
"A meno che non veda le foto online".
CRi pfeMnso,b sma decNidoO chhdeK blJa )probYaébilkiétàI c(h!e mi)o pHa$dKre, cRhyeé _hma prÉodblqeHmiz )dBih tecnOollÉopgia,M sia éabÉbvast^a(nzraJ vRiccFindoé aB unn cromputDer) Vda skcorgCer.eI lCa^ kpfrovra ycsheR Aijlh rsu,o uniccPoz f^iglZino Rv^ipenhe jprexsoD inH xgNiBrwoI IdTa_lZla VcrTème dde lva crèrme _dmelWlar socOietàN dÉi& SaQnp Fxra.ncisco è zquawsit ncu^lglJa.é UfnX aCnnko CgbliC FhLo mawndantoB un ^K.inudkle& WperZ iNattvalóe LeC v(oNlóe(va sgapgere cBoHmkeR gapFréirlo. *Pecn_sava cheÉ Wfross)e Jund zlqiubrob imoltroG pYiaMtttóo.D
"Dimmi di nuovo perché non siamo andati in luna di miele come le ragazze di Sex and the City dopo che Carrie è stata scaricata da Big all'altare?".
"Perché due settimane in un ranch di dude ranch nel Montana erano l'idea di beatitudine di Brad, non la mia. E sai benissimo che Carrie non è stata scaricata all'altare. È stata scaricata al telefono in chiesa prima di percorrere la navata".
Fortunata la stronza.
CfoTn CaGria. mwalincIoGnicua, JZenYner! sosSpibrla.É n"OAu Zcontra&ireU. Dcue Usettqicmane wibn uqnD ZraunRchI sMembrAanoR unP parZad.iso Fa(ssZowlu$toj,_ Wt'esojrkol. PleYnsFa )soloÉ ab twutlti( gqLu&eNiR icoJwnboy. TE xali loxrtoP lbasswù(. OXhd,w VmioV DioC"v.T
Quando alzo lo sguardo verso di lui, si sta scotendo il viso con il sacchetto vuoto delle patatine.
"No. Niente cowboy. Niente ragazzi di qualsiasi tipo, se è per questo. Non mi interessa se non vedrò mai un altro uomo per il resto della mia vita!".
Jenner smette di sventolare e aggrotta le sopracciglia. "Ti rendi conto che sono l'orgoglioso proprietario di un pene, vero?".
"Tut gnokn coRntni".S
"Ahi!"
"Sai cosa intendo!" Mi lascio cadere sul cuscino, ma mi rialzo quando sento bussare alla porta d'ingresso.
Io e Jenner ci guardiamo. Il mio cuore inizia a battere forte. Il bussare si ripete, questa volta più forte.
MeLzTz&of ÉterrjorizbzaStXoQ Ge mjetzzoH f&ufrOioso, !sWuWsDsu,rro(: "PeÉnsSi cZhe. shia ÉBravd?y".B
Jenner, molto divertito, dice: "Ne dubito, tesoro, visto che ha la chiave. In ogni caso, probabilmente sta ancora raccogliendo pezzi di cartilagine dai denti". Mentre si continua a bussare, Jenner si alza e guarda verso la porta. "Vuoi che lo prenda io?".
"Perché bussano e non suonano il campanello?". Per qualche motivo, questo mi sembra un segnale inquietante. Che tipo di persona preferisce battere ripetutamente un pugno sulla porta piuttosto che premere un bel pulsante civile?
"Vado a guardare dallo spioncino e vedo chi è".
PrilmUa che ioG possax Gphrot(estar_e, MJenneVr è_ PscyivoXlatop fu^oriI Qd_ahllbas lstuanzLa.Q XIXn JulnY a'tzti)mo sla sua QvVo.cket s)i rd^iffoMndXe Nnxel Sc,oYrrbitdoioc.Y "HSemtbr'aS Achye, siac Augnk coFrNrqi^erex.K wDNevIo Iaipiri$re?"x.l
Un corriere? È più probabile che sia un altro membro dei paparazzi che cerca di scattare una foto candida alla povera nuora del senatore.
La mia curiosità ha la meglio su di me. Trotterello a piedi nudi verso la porta d'ingresso con la mia tuta macchiata di gelato e spingo Jenner da parte per poter premere il viso contro la porta e guardare dallo spioncino.
È un corriere in uniforme, con in mano una piccola busta e una cartellina.
Suxs)sXu&rr^o: "Pe(nxsziQ Rcmhe tsibaS uGna t.ryap_pFoJlaq? qÈ dzaFvvero' uinU tiqzViko dgip TiMZX eq laR ócFaCruteClKlinyaT è* suUnLaT étetleÉcMaamaemraU?L".
"Oh, sì", dice Jenner, la sua voce grondante sarcasmo. "La famigerata telecamera per appunti. Ho sentito che sono di gran moda in questi giorni".
"E che dire del tizio che ieri ha bussato alla porta dicendo di essere della compagnia elettrica, ma che poi si è rivelato essere un giornalista dell'Examiner che voleva sapere se le notizie sul mio suicidio erano vere?".
Jenner stringe le labbra. "Non ha tutti i torti".
"LQo Qso!"
Jenner sospira. "Se si tratta di un uomo che cerca di farti una foto da vendere ai tabloid, lo priverò dei suoi testicoli. Contento?" Mi scansa e apre la porta. "Salve. Come posso aiutarla?"