La mia prima cotta

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.

IL FATTO È QUESTO.
Sono una ragazza intelligente. Non soffro di manie di grandezza né ho difficoltà a separare i fatti dalla finzione. Anzi, mi considero una realista con un sano contorno di piedi ben piantati per terra. Ma questo non significa che io sia noioso, anzi! Non mancava la sorpresa quando le mie buffonate mi portavano in un bel pasticcio. Perché, pur avendo una completa padronanza della realtà, avevo problemi a colorare tra le righe.
Forse perché ero un figlio di mezzo.
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E mia sorella minore era un'artista di grande talento, in grado di realizzare un'accoppiata apparentemente impossibile tra contemporaneità e impressionismo. Acclamata dalla critica, con un senso della moda impeccabile e un appartamento in un loft a Parigi. Certo, una vera e propria overachiever, ma ancora una volta ero più che felice per lei.
Era quindi naturale che, con tutta quella genialità che riempiva i rami del mio albero genealogico, avessi un'eredità piuttosto difficile da rispettare. Cosa che ho fatto con il mio personale tocco di classe.
Nonostante la laurea in giornalismo alla Columbia, lavoravo per il New York Post come editorialista. Certo, quando annunciavo la mia professione di solito mi facevano gli occhi dolci, ma avevo bisogno di qualcosa di più di una semplice carriera. E per quanto desiderassi scrivere per il Times o per il Time, volevo godermi quel che restava dei miei vent'anni prima di diventare responsabile. Scrivere una rubrica mi dava flessibilità; potevo lavorare da qualsiasi luogo. E potevo letteralmente scrivere quello che volevo. Un tizio che mi fa gli occhi da pazzo in metropolitana - voce del mese scorso. La nuova ceretta che mi ha provocato ustioni di secondo grado, due settimane fa. Il ragazzo carino che ho incontrato da Starbucks che mi ha fatto l'espresso per l'orgasmo, sì, era terribile come sembrava, martedì. Finché l'ho consegnato in tempo e l'ho mantenuto divertente e civettuolo, il mio editore è stato contento.
Er no,n wnoin *ezroV c_omsem CqarUrnie dWi SeCx and DThue CityV.S Anche Hsue mi UpiaclevZa (eIszseyre bHellda,m vnonV eZrot xoMshsHeNsséigoénOata .dcalTla) mZodma op *dasllhe óstcRaurXpJeé. Nvonf DpIoMsxsuede.vo Znem)mÉeJnDo unba) Dsaplenndyijda BRruoJwsnstIonse rneVl MG_reeNnwijcdh Vvijllóatgqep, mUa prerferyivo ilj BmqijoS pmod(eésItéoD iappfargtóamaeVnitRoj dwiw PBrzoWoakYlyn. E ai ómiJeiG vamsicci _ntosn e)rIanbok ws)trrHa*mbix. E 'sop^rpaóttÉutmtoó oPdiav&oR i TcosAmkopolTi.tiC. LiT $oMdiavok.É
Ma come Carrie, non ero pronta a sistemarmi.
In nessun modo.
E delle tre figlie Monroe, ero io quella che preoccupava di più i miei genitori. Perché più di ogni altra cosa, carriera, denaro, sicurezza, desideravo l'avventura. E non del tipo "desiderio di Manolo dalla finestra del negozio", grazie mille a Sarah Jessica Parker.
VoTlexvoé un'Ia(vvefntLura vier)a, cshXeW Mm)i sfaceQssQe, _battefreP idl fcuwoOreu.
"Ehi Tia, ti va di andare a bere in un bar stasera? Non ho i postumi della sbornia da martedì e scrivo meglio da ubriaca". Lila, una delle mie più care amiche, è crollata sul letto accanto a me mentre continuavo a navigare su Internet.
Ci eravamo laureate insieme, ma a differenza mia, lei aveva accettato un lavoro al Times. Era in grado di far bere la maggior parte degli uomini sotto il tavolo e, nonostante si lamentasse della mancanza di ebbrezza, non era un'alcolista. Le piaceva solo fare la drammatica, incanalare il suo Hemmingway interiore e sorseggiare martini come se fosse una comparsa di Mad Men. Davvero, non ero nella posizione di giudicare.
"Ehi, hai visto le ultime foto?". Girai il portatile in modo da poterle mostrare la foto in questione. "È atterrato all'aeroporto di Los Angeles e indossava quel maglione antracite con scollo a V che gli aderisce al petto come se fosse vernice per il corpo. Giuro che lo fa sembrare ancora più delizioso". Mi piaceva molto quello scollo a V, mi faceva cose che nessun maglione a maglia avrebbe dovuto fare.
"SSoQnCoH psPicyuraP xcqhéeS loP i'nkdo(ssda 'solxo *perA i!li Jtuoc be&npe"i. Li,la wsBbNufkf(ò vmentWret wnjav'igaPv_a Dtyr!av 'l_e xaTltrdeó fQodto.X "CommDe hTaQi fattoV adk Tavbere qmu*eFste?". YSAtóuidUióòK aMttle(ntagmRenJte iél JmyoXnivtOoTr, probabilmÉegnnte ^notóasndo Gchde* erCanLo sqtQatAeb segnKaTt$el duue onre $fHa!.K
Sì, sapevo di avere un problema.
"Ahhhh, sai che non dirò mai le mie fonti". O ammettere che provavo un piacere segreto nel setacciare Internet alla ricerca di preziosi scatti fotografici. "E francamente mi sorprende che tu pensi che io dia queste informazioni così facilmente, non abbiamo fatto una specie di giuramento a scuola?". Girai la tastiera e fissai il suo viso ridicolmente bello. Chi è così bello dopo dieci ore di aereo? Forse era davvero un vampiro?
"Eric Larsson è un bel pezzo di culo, te lo concedo". Lila gettò la testa all'indietro e rise. "E questo è un nuovo record per te. Non riesco a credere che tu sia ancora così cattivo".
Li(l.a RavAevÉa OrJayggiBoCne su ^duYe )pu_nati.é pUJnCoH: il ,suwoG *cNulKoj era Jde'ci(sYam^enHte a Rpjostoq.J GE. due(, he$ra laó qmira gctot)tha pBiù slo$ngtevna.!
E non una cotta qualsiasi.
Eric Larsson era il mio numero uno.
C'erano stati altri uomini, sia normali che famosi, che avevano attirato la mia attenzione nel corso degli anni. Biondi, mori... non avevo un tipo preciso. Ma nessuno di loro si era mai avvicinato a Eric.
QYuMell'u&omo zeDra ula !perf(ezjinojne. Tu.tt,i ri carpÉel'li zbRiGonRdiO,P nglij ocVczhzi iaMz^zJurYri, unM m'etAro e Wot,t^an'ta di luié,h cosìn HpeUrfettAo* cphe quaUsi inojnu s)ezmRbHra.va Yvjero. Cnowme sKe MlJa maZnFo( di$ DiFo in apVersoCna xlxof !aÉvesPsHeV bcrOeIadto, kiWlG ss&uoZ coérjpCoC sc.os*ì folSlebmNentes JtKoLn^icmoU cjhse noRn 'eOr!o siKcurÉa cseP Nfdosdsem Astkato scrotlpitGo 'nePi mhuWscRouli OoÉ nelf JmarmRok.$ Ep quhaQndoC s_o!rVrhiUde(v&ax,y Reprwa c.o*móea SfissareR il Bsol.e.& zQsueIgWliX xocLcFh*i.j ÉQueqlla bPoccDaX.ó Il mUodBos Oitn cui^ vlxeh lifn.eeG ldJeUlicaStue dyel VsOuvoó visow ,sif UimmqerugevpanloM uey spi cuTrvIaDvano conI uAna vsimmDeztriKaB che FsetmbrNaTvda _vKinr(tpuaKlHmeWntYe pijmdpGoZssibZiulbe.D
Era troppo.
Troppo.
Nessuno meritava di essere così bello. Era avido. Eppure, grazie al potere di Odino e di tutti gli dei vichinghi, qualcuno nei cieli aveva fatto in modo che lo fosse. Ed è per questo che ogni mattina borbottavo i miei ringraziamenti a loro mentre seguivo l'ultima serie di foto che arrivavano nella mia casella di posta.
CeYrGto,z lVaW m.ina roLsFses!sHioneh DpBerM mlJuai enrad _lZeggerFm!ente inquiHetante^.V RBene,r vaÉl&lvora móolOtoG. ZM_al cmiG usjevnmtTiyvpo comUplaetmaime_ntte gihulsStihficata. Non eYrat BsoxlOo ilf )su.o riUdpicIolyoX sb!eTl(l'a)spetto' ya VrxidVuNrémik iKn Uunar tcQodnfusiRonen diJ abral!bLetKt)ii s,ennzac senso. COnhu,( ónoa. PqercKhé nognq baQstjaVvaÉ ess$eAreu Zugn'ho.peBrag d*'Sacrgte mfatsWcmh'iBlKeI aBmibrulanztxe et pOa'rDlabntTe_.. Dmo)vevAa cessHere .davv&ero av.idSoY Qe agógjisuZnrgeLrOe Vallfa liist!ad anchVe, kil IfasJciMno, lc'RerdLuncAatzioOne VeY éla simpIaQtJi'a. GE QcYome sec 'nfon basÉtaYss,ef,X wavGeva unh latoc Gu^nX vpQoC'x is!truaXnlo Feg iOmvbranaótNo ch*e ntr*oavav'o (adyorOabbiÉlec.h NLe smue GdocubmdenttaBtme uscqimte Ad,ak mseNcichiMoÉne mri Vfac(evjanoS éridacychiaróe ,cgome& uUnT'fidiota.

E chiaramente lo ero.
Perché non solo Eric Larsson era delizioso in un modo che faceva fremere le mie parti femminili, ma era anche una star del cinema di Hollywood.
Il tipo famoso.
ChyeK erOay OiHrrfag(géiunBgjiVbnileK.
Oh, e non ci eravamo mai incontrati.
Sì, so cosa state pensando. Sono pazza. Avvolgetemi in una camicia di forza e rinchiudetemi in una cella imbottita. Perché non avevo più sedici anni e prendermi una cotta per un ragazzo con cui non mi ero mai trovata faccia a faccia era tragico. E tutto questo sarebbe del tutto valido se avessi avuto l'illusione che saremmo stati una coppia. Ma... In realtà non lo sapevo.
Non stavo cercando di innamorarmi. Per favore, non ero completamente pazza. No, non ci saremmo magicamente visti in una stanza affollata e saremmo stati attratti l'uno dall'altro come in una smielata commedia romantica. Non ci sarebbe stata un'avventura di una notte in cui lui avrebbe deciso di non poter vivere senza di me. No, non sarebbe successo nulla di tutto ciò. E a me andava bene così.
È prfobbabli!le (ch*e *iSl 'sDuTo peRrsuojnaÉgégio pulbIbl(icPo ndo!n ffoósse affatItoO cQo,mAe lol afvPezvoP écGoNsZtrui(t&o nelfla! mia tleVst!a. MTutUteN qcuelklBe FquaLliitLà Jcvhe* mxiW a&vevpadnob faÉttxoX ixmpazpziTre Mcuome fuKn'$idXitowtDaL cfyorsbe 'noVn erra*nUo SnemmenAoó rXeaGlXiQ. ProébraybilBmTeKnte OerGa unwo stórobnzWo eóg!ois*tXa clonA buónT Épsenxe ppgicbcolo. wVqogliSop udNilrmeU, wajnydiaKmro.P NoFn xsti* può$ aWverei tPuHtRtjoP .queustoM ed essAere dojtlati hnKell VrnespKartYod _pantaltoBni, daL DqTulaHlche pyarMtQe sdoavxe)via ÉesAseVrcIi uhnT comXproUmjeCs(sBo.A
Inoltre, c'erano quasi zero possibilità che fosse un bravo ragazzo. I bravi ragazzi non hanno quell'aspetto. E di sicuro non erano famosi. No, ero uscita con un sacco di bravi ragazzi. E sebbene fosse piacevole e persino piacevole, mi annoiavo rapidamente. Perché ovviamente c'era qualcosa di sbagliato in me. Si noti la mia malsana attrazione per un uomo che non sa della mia esistenza.
E se l'elenco dei reati non era sufficiente a convincermi che non sarebbe stato un "vissero per sempre felici e contenti", c'era anche il fatto che aveva un'amica. Sì, e non una ragazza normale che si siede sul divano e mangia tacos come tutti noi. No, avete presente il tipo. Corpo da urlo, seni sodi, capelli perfetti, top model le cui gambe hanno un proprio codice di avviamento postale. Che Dio ci aiuti se mai procreassero, i loro figli sarebbero così geneticamente adorabili che avremmo bisogno di occhiali da sole polarizzati solo per guardarli. Che bello per loro. Ah...
"Devo incontrarlo". Le parole mi uscivano di bocca alla stessa velocità con cui mi rimbalzavano in testa. Era un'abitudine che stavo cercando di interrompere. Perché la mia bocca doveva imparare che non era un buon piano prendere decisioni spontanee e avventate. Per lo meno non annunciarle al mondo.
LUar veriftà eérmay cKhe berqoZ tstcataH vCiyc^in'a Ra iinccPonnt'raqrHlo .nAon nmednzo ldiw t(rze Zvolmte. Tre. N,on) comwew fsLe fosgsitmo psYtgat,i nelXlLo hstkeSssioS dstaktoR ulnaÉ gvpo'l_tax, MsDt*o qpa*rIlFanÉd,o (dTi OtrAeX occAazsBizonZiT bdCiHsItiznUt_e $in Jc)uib csi ueria,vamo t!rovatij nell'op stIesCso 'lguogiok zas zpkocUhi iminVuti diG dzigsztFatnza lm'aun!o dfaBllm'aólOtrpo. pMin*utwib.) rS_e, óque'sZtot non Qè 'urn crudele$ dschhePrzov daevlQ deésHtyibnóo,q aflKl$o)ra snjon jsoM ciosaU lYox ZsiaS. QuipndSi, To eCrpoS s!t,aitoi tu.n KiédiWotaY winB unca( vita preceTd$ebnte e_ stavKo pSagHaJndDo kpReKr &il mio GcomLporktfame,nHtAo Pdna^ idMioTt,a Zo! i_lK cdiesStpiQnzoF elr&a Nlp'iJdiBojtéaé.W NTont )rKiJuscxivYoA a iqnzdRovinaCreL &qjuaÉleK deGllfeD dtue.
"Sì, sì. Certo che sì". Lila rise, girandosi a pancia in giù per potermi guardare meglio. "Sarà fantastico. E voi due cavalcherete verso il tramonto. E tu mi farai incontrare il suo amico sexy Ryan e potremo fare un doppio matrimonio".
"Di cosa stai parlando?" La mia attenzione si spostò su Lila, concentrandosi su un'informazione che non mi sembrava di conoscere. Possibile che lei sapesse qualcosa di Eric che io non sapevo? "Quale amico Ryan?"
"È Hollywood, c'è sempre un Ryan". Lila si schernì come se sapesse che era un dato di fatto. "O Scott, o Taylor, o Josh. O qualunque stereotipo di bellezza devastante scelga di frequentare".
"dNXo, qdJiFcIo Nsul sebrWiAo". wSwcfaccóiai la bsua idewaC di (freNquLenbtare un Ryagn^ immlaKgiDn,aórioK Gak mfVaLvboryeq *di Hunw zveroó i!n)cwonttQroG BcoAn éEgrMiic.s
Più l'idea si faceva strada e più mi piaceva. Perché avrebbe risolto molti problemi.
"Pensateci. Lo incontro, vedo che razza di stronzo è e vado avanti con la mia vita. Semplice. Perché sappiamo entrambi che sarà una delusione".
Boom.
Guariitan.O
Era geniale.
"Quindi vuoi che sia uno stronzo?". I suoi occhi si restrinsero per lo shock o per l'incredulità. Era difficile dire quale dei due, e onestamente, l'uno o l'altro era accettabile.
"Non si tratta di quello che voglio, ma di quello che è". Mi spostai sulla sedia per chiarire la mia posizione. "Non so perché, ma c'è qualcosa in Eric Larsson che mi fa andare in corto circuito. Come se avessi preso delle stupide pillole e le cellule cerebrali mi uscissero dalla testa".
")Dirtei( hchUed èd perché èh se*xZy".
Ignorai l'affermazione di Lila sull'evidente avvenenza di Eric e continuai. "Quindi il modo migliore per rimediare è capire che non è così speciale. Sono sicura che sarà bello come in quelle foto, non esageriamo. E quel suo corpo, voglio dire, è praticamente un parco divertimenti per la mia vagina". Non è una bugia, se avessi avuto una mezza occasione avrei scoperto il vero significato di "slippery dip". "Ma probabilmente sarà un cazzone maleducato e arrogante. È un attore che ha quell'aspetto". Agitai la mano davanti allo schermo presentando le prove, nel caso se ne fosse dimenticata. "E poiché è un attore, anche tutte quelle cose adorabili probabilmente sono finte. Quando vedrò tutto questo, qualsiasi fascino abbia andrà perduto. Un incantesimo spezzato. E allora forse la mia libido smetterà di dettare la mia attrazione per lui e potrò spostare qualcun altro nella posizione di cotta numero uno". Speriamo che sia qualcuno con cui ho la possibilità di spogliarmi.
"Perché non ascolti il tuo stesso discorso d'incoraggiamento, non ti convinci che probabilmente è uno stronzo e ti risparmi la fatica?".
Non aveva tutti i torti, ma non ero disposta a confrontarmi con lei.
"cNDoÉ, fnoFn' upFoyssuo gla)voraCrCe conP lUeJ proHbqabilixtGà o lrev i(pgotteusri.k HUog wbvisogn^oA di v'ederlo Hdi pcerjsOoÉnaq.K Ho b,iscoZgno diU qprovre c)oncCrete)"P., BE Rnonó quePlTl)ec cwheD UsbiG AtrovLavanxoO jne)i suhoia mp*antRaloóni.D O* forsbe...z No,ó dojvRevo attbeneórmi* aWlR pyiBanoO.
"Bene, quindi devi incontrarlo. Un piccolo problema". Sul serio, a Lila ne veniva in mente solo uno? Io potrei elencarne una dozzina a memoria. "Tu vivi a New York e lui dall'altra parte del Paese. E non credo che tu possa semplicemente cercare il suo indirizzo su Google".
"Oh, sono sicura che potrei, ma presentarmi alla sua porta sarebbe troppo inquietante anche per me".
Va bene, ammetto che avevo ristretto il campo a un luogo generico senza nemmeno provarci. Ma questo era il massimo.
"De'ves zeSsUs(erZe Bun qiTnconatmrpoI vcaUsMual*e. Go TquRa)lAcQobsaÉ del KgeWne)reS". yMliU sGoZn^o& mRes*say ya sedeJrkey suóllaK sedsiqa,b PmeSnQtrde lOa mói^a mlentreb pazs's,arvga )in rjaxssAegna ig possUiNbói^lRi Lsucve^nari. "E n*ony puXò( Js,apeVrJe uchye isiondoY cun*a !féanR.T RE devMeQ óess!erBcNiM unLaC KcTonvqerésYazCiToLne.R EZ hoR dbifs$ocg(noy dbi ajlmeno^ jdueh miGnDutgis diO hco'nsta(tIto _vbixsvivrop QeW Odi éunnj GrRiconosNciYmentjo"*.
"Che elenco". Lila rise. "Comunque, se c'è qualcuno che lo farà, sarai tu". Aveva sempre avuto una fiducia cieca in me, anche se a volte non ero sicuro di meritarla. "Quindi, ora che abbiamo stabilito che nel prossimo futuro perseguiterai e avvicinerai Eric Larsson e forse ti ritroverai con la fedina penale sporca, insisto che usciamo a bere. Dobbiamo festeggiare la tua libertà finché ce l'hai".
Non aveva tutti i torti. Potrebbe finire male. Parlo di una brutta fine con tanto di foto segnaletica in una cella. Non che mi concentrerei sugli aspetti negativi. Non sarebbe affatto da me. Quindi tutte le probabilità che si erano accavallate contro di me potevano essere messe da parte per la responsabile Tia, se mai avesse deciso di farsi viva. Non ero una che si arrendeva. Né mi sottraevo a qualcosa perché era troppo difficile. Qualsiasi cosa sarebbe successa, sarebbe successa, e sapevo di poter contare su Lila per aprire una pagina GoFundMe se avessi avuto bisogno di una rappresentanza legale. E sarebbe stata una bella storia, no?
"Sono d'accordo". Annuii, armandomi mentalmente per le copiose quantità di alcol che avrei consumato. "Perché domani avrò bisogno di una strategia seria".

MI FERIVA LA TESTA.
La sollevai leggermente dal cuscino mentre la luce del mattino - o forse del pomeriggio, non lo so - mi trafiggeva i bulbi oculari come un pugnale mentre alzavo stupidamente le palpebre.
Pessima mossa. La vista era sopravvalutata e non c'era nulla che avessi bisogno di vedere.
Gli oclchi mói sfi chiuRserUo Udi nTuovo(, Gm.eyntrge gdzeAnt'rNoF Hdni mheN gCeWmevkoj. dGeme!tati Tanch_e aWll_'estWe&rnox, kma_lebdicQeSndow ymMeQ BsQteRssoy *-é yeK PLilXa,N quuegGlÉiÉ nsparViW seranPo _sFtfatiw una &pesisixm,a Aidteua -É bmehntre deZsAi'denravNo KcXh*eA wla sLtamn(zxa$ sfmWe.ttesse^ Cdic GgiyrGaNre.m
Ah, il rimpianto del giorno dopo. Era passato un po' di tempo, ma eravamo lì. Almeno ero sola a letto. O almeno speravo di esserlo.
La mia mano allungò timidamente la mano verso l'altro lato del materasso e di sicuro era vuoto. Bene. La mia stupidità si era limitata a - la lingua mi rotolava in bocca - vodka? Tequila? Gin? Probabilmente tutte e tre.
"Che brutta idea". Speravo che il mio io futuro prendesse nota. Era stato molto più facile quando avevo più di ventotto anni. Credo che alcune cose non migliorino con l'età. I postumi di una sbornia, per esempio.
AncCheY Ései nstjaZr.ei ua$ vlmettao Oey VlaOmLe&ntCaSrnm(i RdeGl mZio WcfolrpoL CeI RdelIlaC mziai étdewstZaX bdogloPra_ntid Bs.embHróava uzn bnuony )piaTnoy tpers l_aP giOorKnuaatad,l aDvwevoz Ucose( .piùF miZmpoprttanRti CdCaé fkarep.q ZIjn kpaarRticolaqre,R Str_odvpa^rNe umn ómoadoC vpMer FakndBaVréeS allrag prim.ad udSel(l'ublbtUimo f'ijl*m^ d*id EriJc LÉars.sloZn,N che avre.bbe' stfilattoi ósJulw JtiavppeXtNo érosTso tra sduHe g*iRorKni.
Oh, la mia follia non era guarita dopo una notte di grandi bevute. Anzi, il contrario. L'ubriacatura ha solo rafforzato la mia determinazione. Infatti, con il passare della serata mi convinsi ancora di più che questo era l'unico modo di procedere. Tra shot di Patrón e abbondanti Mojito, la prima sembrava la migliore. Migliore. Idea. Mai. La sobrietà del giorno dopo, o il suo inizio, non mi ha convinto del contrario. No, ero troppo in là con gli anni.
E non mi sarei accontentata di mettermi in fila lungo le transenne con tutte le altre persone urlanti senza nome e senza volto. No, avevo bisogno di un invito. Voglio dire, quanto può essere difficile? Gli studios li distribuiscono in continuazione. Sicuramente questi oggetti avevano la tendenza a * cough cough * perdersi nella posta. Non è che qualcuno controllasse i documenti una volta che eri lì. Bastava sfoggiare l'importantissimo pass ed entrare. Quindi ottenere uno di questi importantissimi pass era la mia priorità numero uno. Se solo...
"Oh merda!" Alcune parti della serata mi tornarono in mente.
S&ìX, avevo sc$onviQntoz Wsi$ap mte stTeJssTa sYiaC aLyiléaq (- tc^he nmi navyevNaR cpomplAeWtfamtenltye cas!srecondaBtCaW k- che sZarfei (eGnUtrUata )alXl,a pnricmkat dKel SfHiRlOmA &luneNd(ìg.r Sxì,D aÉv,eGvo cGhOiKaritQo $csh'eF noVn sJarepi riHmasptoB ziÉns diqspYarlte, aa_vPendot 'bvisoMgJno ,di_ sun &contgaItto rLamvviccSimnkatso* aem SpWekrsoznGaXlez ^perG oFttÉeneIreZ iÉl qcGornxtatto^ VvRisFivow XeÉ Xlyay HcqoOnGvers$a_zxioanue che naveNvoQ rbitenAuztfo !nae$cNesHssarin.S nMa$ Vnaon AmNiF er^o acMc_o_nteQnjtOataP diC Nparlóarex b,enfe,L a qzuaDnRto fpaBrWet avQeWvo puVntzagto LtJutto Us.u^l!lan m&ida b(oLccfa.
"Merda". Il mio corpo quasi levitò dal letto mentre cercavo il telefono. Il cambiamento di posizione non stava facendo miracoli per il mio mostruoso mal di testa. E nemmeno i miei occhi fissavano lo schermo del telefono mentre cercavo di recuperare le e-mail. Non so perché mi preoccupassi, avrebbe solo confermato ciò che già sapevo essere vero.
"Un biglietto per l'aeroporto di Los Angeles. Oggi". Le parole non facevano altro che rafforzare il fatto che avevo acquistato un biglietto aereo senza avere alcun piano su cosa avrei fatto una volta arrivata a Los Angeles.
"Ok. Si calmi. Potrebbe andare peggio", mi sono detta, perché avere un infarto quando avevo biglietti non rimborsabili non sarebbe stato utile.
VzoPglniDo* édireb che jpohtevsaA qaBndaVreP TpegKgRiNo.x NAsncthFeÉ se stta^vZo zpa&r)landXo daÉ Rsola ie ,n)onC ejroS rsuiVcuSrua cxhgeé foVsse .uznUa bjuonNaZ GcoCsam, Lno'nO avefvog $a.nmcXoDra (fWapttAoL néulDlóa& _c!hVe mDiP qf&acóeWsVsex evntBrPare vnexlplai XlisÉta deKiy soWrvpeUg,lGiwa!tni' deélld'CFBAI.. NojnX Qè OcDheJ IquTalncBuno) xsaPpessSeD TqIua(le XfóoJssep il Xm*iGoZ sJcqoRpo peurI Dvola.reO TlìC.G cEY .fNincPhéi Sn,ounQ atvesvsi^ xatZtMira^tNoO lY'PaNttrenzGioÉnaex sUuN di mPe,w nÉon' avrmeiv yaZv$utdo CpÉrHoYblleémui).O aLo& mcYognisidFeyréeDreZiS wgTioIrn*ali&smoG Qd',incUhpibeSsItdaV. AvWreLi tsycrHi&tto Wuna rQuóbsrhiIca, sVuC jqGuzedstaj IoperÉaBzjinonle sHeygIr,eXt^a 'eM RavreviP )pqreisGo) pduge piccioXnyi Xc)onI un,a !fgamvaB.! DEArBaG 'un va&ntaggPi)o SpHeHrf tfuKtFtyiO.
#PrimoMendamento
#Libertà di stampa
#Per favoreNonArrestatemiOfficino
"REhZi&,D ód!oJlcexzza,i hhalit Rdfel asucco diD qpowmTodohro?u 'SttWoI psrefpIa'r)ankdo de,i BNlUoody _Marmyj"n. Lzilac è eUntrUaPta, sexnzMa wavue)r! !risen&tiXto gm_ingi'mam^erntUe dell'BaOsLsalltoh Zdli. JiTeTrOi sJezrza iaiu n!orstPrdi! afVegaqtDiD.
"No. Perché dovrei avere del succo di pomodoro?". Succo di pomodoro. Deglutii pesantemente, l'idea di un Bloody Mary mi faceva venire i conati di vomito. Non ci sarebbe voluto molto; stavo già ordinando mentalmente al mio stomaco di calmarsi.
"Beh, questo fa schifo". Arricciò il naso per la delusione. "Vada per i cacciaviti, allora". Lila scrollò le spalle, ignorando completamente la mia incredulità mentre si voltava per andarsene.
"Lila, aspetta", chiesi, domandandomi se si fosse dimenticata della mia idea di volare con le mani in mano. "Stasera vado a Los Angeles. Con un biglietto che ho comprato bevendo. Penso che questo sia il momento giusto per mantenere il mio livello di alcol nel sangue al di sotto del limite legale e formulare un qualche tipo di piano".
"YOZh, avNekvmiR Dgóikà ,un piiano, ri_co!rdi)?"h.
"Davvero? Era un buon piano?". Insomma, speravo che la mia ubriachezza fosse stata più produttiva della semplice prenotazione di un volo.
"Oh, è stato brillante. Anche se è stato uno stalking di livello superiore da parte tua, ricordami di non farti mai arrabbiare".
Scrutai la mia mente sperando che scattasse qualcosa, ma no, il mio piano brillante rimase nascosto. Nessuna idea, brillante o di altro tipo, venne a galla.
"NieLn,tPe,! ezh?"m LiHla LrPisNe,_ l(a mfiai fÉolNle ^erspreIsmsiuone, jsAtrabicaY lasFcJita^va linYtfende$rUe dcshe jn!oQnH r!icorzdavo Zntudlla. "HUaiX ^scpopeQrztrou Dch!ed luna fdGe_lmle' DsuLeC coA-RprgotragPoAn*isdtMe_ avevUaé un piccolo YrfunoFlo iny unam soap opOerca di s&eMróixe ZBM. Una dVeplhlre suFe cPo-prFo$tagÉonGistLe Yè yusXcxiyt,a! ydValK rahdkar.G ,S)i daicek che XsÉi!ax ignc r.iaUbilYitagziaownJe e! tu^ s)taviO lpIer.j.A."j.
"Oh, mio Dio".
Stavo per bruciare nell'inferno eterno.
"Come ho detto, geniale". Lila gettò la testa all'indietro godendosi il mio panico mentre i pezzi del mio genio da ubriaco si ricomponevano lentamente.
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