Danilo
Kolli was crying against my chest and I was holding him, and all I could hear was my father's voice in my head from Milan.
I recalled the moment me and Pai had to talk back in Milan. The green room.
The tension after Dove walked out and Pai walked in was thick enough to choke on. The air still smelled like Dove's cologne, sweet and cloying, like hairspray and coffee from the runway. Outside the door I could hear the muffled bass of the show, people calling names, heels clicking on concrete.
I felt like a mess.
My shirt was half untucked, my hair was a mess from running my hands through it too many times, my eyes were red and burned. Kolli had left me just hours before. In Milan. After everything. After I slept with Dove whilst my husband was planning a surprise wedding celebration on the other side of the city, at that little Italian restaurant he liked with the bad singer and the good tiramisu. He had been planning it for weeks and I had ruined it in one night.
