Portraits of Strangers excerpts

I am currently writing a prequel to my first novel, Room 18, called Portraits of Strangers. The novel focuses on the life of Theo and Kal, two of the secondary characters from the first novel. Portraits of Strangers is set five years earlier in 2003, when the unlikely pair connects during their last few weeks of graduate school at the Florence Academy of Art. The book is dual perspective, switching between Theo and Kal.

I set the drinks down on the table in front of everyone, and Francesca makes a big show of thanking me for hers, batting her fake eyelashes at me, which I find to be incredibly condescending. I flare my nostrils at her and say nothing as I set down Matteo’s. I take a hearty swig out of my glass of whisky, which I pretend to like because it is cheaper and stronger than buying multiple cocktails, and because I refuse to exist in this environment unlubricated. Anette tells the two of them about the latest happenings at the bar, particularly the elderly tourists that take to flirting with her daily (I mentally roll my eyes). Then, Francesca proceeds to tell her about how incredibly difficult it has been to get her boutique jewelry line off the ground (I feel like my ears are bleeding) and Anette seems so genuinely concerned for her that I am becoming increasingly worried about the mental wellbeing of everyone present. Thankfully, before anyone can talk much longer, the remaining crowd of Anette's friends arrive, and they quickly swarm into the smoking room at the back of the venue to dance. I am suddenly alone with Matteo and some American kid named Jake who looks like he is fifteen. I glance between both of them and then down at my glass. It still has several swigs of whisky left in it, but I take it out in one chug.

The dark waters of the Arno are sparkling with the warm streetlights of a summer Florence coming to life. The waves slosh comfortingly against the underside of the bridge, and on occasion when passersby cease to pass by, it is the only thing you can hear. I let myself get caught up in it while my heart rate catches up with my mental state, and finally plateaus again.

Anette is the bartender at the osteria I used to frequent, if that tells you anything about my social habits over the past six months. There are some other students from the academy that I go and draw with on the weekends, and I do as much socializing as happens naturally in the studio, but honestly, everyone is so absorbed in their work that we don't do a lot of normal human things. So when I need a pint of something, I just drift down the road alone, grab a night cap, and fall asleep. It is depressing to recount this habit.

I don't know what I was expecting to see – some dodgy room with white walls and no decor, but I am pleasantly surprised when he opens the door. The brick walls give the place some undeniable (though highly inconvenient) charm, and he has a huge rug thrown out over the main room's hardwood floor. All of the furniture is pushed up against the walls haphazardly, but the resulting schema is very open, with a lot of natural light, which is amplified by the fact that he has never bothered to put drapes on the windows. I catch a glimpse of a CD player peeking over the TV, sitting on a bookstand which has been shoved behind it to conserve space. I wander over to it and mindlessly thumb through his collection of music.

I rush up to the bathroom, skipping steps as I go, slam the bathroom door shut behind me. As I let my head fall against it slowly with a small thunk, and I squeeze my eyes shut, and the pressure behind my nose builds as tears inch their way out of the corners of my eyes. I cry quietly until my lungs are out of air to force out of my body, and then I take a quiet, deep breath in through my nose. I turn around to splash some water on my face and dry it with my cloth, which hangs by Aoife's to the right of the sink.  A dark emerald green cloth, wrinkled, shoved haphazardly into the towel rack, next to a sheet of neatly folded powder blue. I examine myself in the mirror, offloading the weight of my body onto my forearms as I slip my feet out of my Doc Martens.

When I spin around, the frame rate of my vision skyrockets, becoming slow motion as neon lights streak my field of view and strobes slow to the speed of a car’s turn indicator as my eyes find Theo and Aoife in the crowd. Theo is dancing, his hands in the air and Vince's sunglasses down on his eyes (I do not remember seeing them swap accessories). Aoife is directly across from him, probably six inches from his chest, also with her hands in the air, which she allows to fall from on high and land on either side of Theo's torso, draping them straight armed over his shoulders, supported by her elbow. She does this casually, loosely, not in a way that draws her to him - almost like he is an accessory to her dancing.

Does anyone want tea? Here, let me make some tea. Can you even have tea, Theo? You’re eight years old. I don’t think there's any caffeine in this one, it’s probably fine. Your mom is upstairs, Theo, why don’t you take her some tea? It’s the only thing she can stomach.