Turner yearns for something, perhaps to return to the church and kneel with her at the altar, but he doesn’t know how, let alone why. There is something not said, a word, a tale, a prayer. He’s not sure which.
Overlooking the lagoon, enveloped in a sensual yet reverent mist, they embrace and wait for a feeling to appear with full force or go away without a trace. A sensation, like when you eat a favorite food and think, for a fraction of a second, that you may go hungry someday, overtakes their senses. It spoils the taste of the bite for an imperceptible moment, but you hope, all in that minute moment, that it will happen again.
As she starts to unbutton her jacket, he pulls her hands away and undresses her completely. The sound of her clothes falling on the floor startles him in the silence of the snow.
Her breath breaks up and tinkles into pieces as the mosaics of the Basilica had, sending sparks and dreams over their heads, revolving about them, spiraling like ancient minarets. The light from a building across the canal, diffused by sleet and snow, is all that illuminates the room.
The wind sweeps, the water laps, and they step farther into the cave.
The days in Venezia travel with an economy of movement. In bliss, they eat long lunches. Their meals are quiet, the trattorias almost empty.
Palazzos and basilicas drift by, encased in an azure sky. Sara thinks they look better when the clouds are weighted with snow. She holds Turner’s arm on the vaporetto, speedboat, and whispers, “Don’t sit down, tourists do that.” He laughs.
They dine at their hotel every night, finish dinner with a smooth and sweet Moscato, then venture out to explore Venice in the dark and cold month of November. The night staff has tea and chestnuts ready when they come in and indulge them. Every night.
Can you feel the ecstasy?
