I'm a bitch. I'm the bitch of the premier. I was not but they have become. I've become to love, you have to become Nicola. When I saw Saturday night in a wheelchair, aged, worn, broken, defeated, destroyed by the irony of life and love I could not help but break away from the others. He stood up from the wheelchair, has taken steps toward me and I have embraced. To drop it, to protect it. Then we kissed. I do not know why I did not understand, but I felt in another life, in another room, in a parallel dimension. 1022 days were clear we had not seen, I never stopped counting, inside of me, everyday. I still remember that morning. That I was going to do a masters degree in fashion and fashion design in Milan. The night he goes to my house the night when we stopped for a moment to cry, either, even while we were making love. Then, that absurd promise. To wait for the end of the master, to understand, to understand, I said. And I know that he was waiting in the heat of Palermo, and I know fake gay fashion designers, journalists, horny, old ladies champions of lifting and infidelity. Then I went back to Sicily. A little bit disgusted, a little changed, really ashamed. Shame not to have become the artist I wanted to be, shame for leaving him there, our love. Only in yellow. That time I called. Someone had told him that I was back. Love me? Asked in despair, crying. YES, YES, BUT WE CAN NOT STAY TOGETHER. I told him, and erased his number from the phone. Then things went quickly after the election. Now James Sacfidi, the premier, said he forgave me. I was his favorite but I have become his bitch. I've become to love.
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