Photo by Meizhi Lang on Unsplash
by Catherine Chiarella Domonkos
The lights dim, the curtains withdraw, the film rolls and Marcello Mastroianni seduces me from the satiny seat beside me with a tub of buttered popcorn. Grazie, I say as I tuck into the bucket, flick butterfly flakes into the air, glimpse them float down, try to catch them in my mouth until my salty lips meet his, succulent and Chianti-kissed. Nibbling my slick digits, the inside of each wrist, he sometimes calls me Sophia, as in Loren, his beloved on-screen partner, but I’m grateful for any recognition of beauty. His tongue meets mine, migrates to my ears and neck, so I hardly notice when his hand navigates up my skirt until he’s on his knees, tongue inside me and I moan, Oh la dolce vita, seizing fistfuls of his luscious hair, but he pulls away and shushes me with Rispetto, per favore, there must be silence during the film. Hushed, I tug him up and into his seat, perch on his lap, from his lips sip a balm of passion, while into my breasts he growls that I’m the sun, an extraordinary creature, one that makes the imagination gallop and together, we lope to the finish. No snoring, mounded mortal, he lights an unfiltered for each of us, we blow smoke rings until the lights come up when he whispers Ciao Bellissima, and I am left sated, fingering the popcorn wings on my pillow, savoring soft-focus mementos until the next showtime.
Catherine Chiarella Domonkos’ stories have been selected for Best Small Fictions, nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. Her work appears in JMWW, The Citron Review, The Disappointed Housewife and X-R-A-Y, among other literary places.
