Dino

She left Dino six months ago because his passion was too destructive and his egocentrism left no room for her. She picked up the phone. “Hello, Dino.” On the other end was the sound of water, a soft gurgle. His voice was low, viscous, like honey mixed with whiskey. “You answered. I knew you couldn’t leave me.” “Where are you, Dino?” “In the jacuzzi. In my suit,” he whispered. There was no pride in his voice, only weariness. “I’m sitting here because it’s the only way I can feel clean. But the water doesn’t help.” “Dino, you have to get out. You’ll catch a cold.” “No. I can’t move. I’m holding your photograph. It’s wet. So am I.” She closed her eyes. She imagined him: his strong body in the wet fabric, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes that right now must be full of tears and guilt. “You were right,” his voice became barely audible, intimate. “You were right when you said I didn’t appreciate you. I thought you were just… a part of me. That you’d always be there.” He paused, and she heard him sigh heavily. “You were right. I can’t live without you.” “I can’t be your anchor until you want to swim.” “I want to,” he whispered. “I want to.” “Then get out of the water, Dino. Take off this suit.” “I’ll do whatever you want if you say you’ll come to me…”