Beneath the surface, there is instability. Steady rain, washing through cracked storm water pipes and sewers, leaks into the unconsolidated sediment. Subterranean layers are eaten away until there’s nothing left but jelly. After thousands of years bearing the weight of the city, ancient catacombs and tunnels crumble.
Overnight a new sinkhole appeared on their street; they were awakened by the alarm of a car that fell in like a happy drunk.
Cora watches as Simon packs camera gear into his shoulder bag. He has his back to her, checking off each lens and securing it in its foam-lined fitting.
She has read that the secret to happiness is low expectations.
Why is she so surprised that Rome is such a disappointment? Simon’s excitement had rubbed off as he planned this dream-come-true trip. She’d been carried along, expectations building to impossible heights. Rome. It was top of everyone’s list. History, food, romance – Rome had it all. Or so she believed.
It had rained for days. Water ran down the escalators into the subways and dripped from the ceilings as they waited for trains. They trudged from the Colosseum to the Pantheon in the drizzle, dodging puddles around the edges of fenced-off archaeological sites where artefacts lay in various states of collapse and degradation.
Simon zips up the bag.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
This afternoon the sun came out, at last, and he is on a mission – backlit arches, soaring domes, shadowy colonnades, columns Doric, Corinthian, Ionic. She’s followed him around before, carrying his bag, then waited in bed for hours while he manipulated the best images to photoshopped perfection.
She has read that expectations are just resentments waiting to happen.
The door closes and the sound of his footsteps recedes. Cora pours herself a glass of wine. On the street, the car in the sinkhole looks like a modern day relic spewing from the ground. A Vespa swerves around it.
In the distance the dome of St Peter’s rises above the terracotta rooftops. The sky is fading to mauve and grey above the silhouetted line of the city. And yet the sky is moving. Black clouds are dancing, in shape shifting patterns that fold and dive and transform before her eyes. She opens the door and steps out on to the narrow balcony. Disbelieving, she puzzles at the choreography, realising that she is seeing birds, by the thousand, the tens of thousands, moving in formation like billowing silk caught on a breeze.
She watches until it’s too dark to see, her spirits soaring with the murmuration. Across the narrow street, there are people at tables in a tiny courtyard. There’s a conversation in English, a little laughter and music. It could be a long evening on her own. She pulls on a jacket and steps out.
Rosemary McBryde
Overnight a new sinkhole appeared on their street; they were awakened by the alarm of a car that fell in like a happy drunk.
Cora watches as Simon packs camera gear into his shoulder bag. He has his back to her, checking off each lens and securing it in its foam-lined fitting.
She has read that the secret to happiness is low expectations.
Why is she so surprised that Rome is such a disappointment? Simon’s excitement had rubbed off as he planned this dream-come-true trip. She’d been carried along, expectations building to impossible heights. Rome. It was top of everyone’s list. History, food, romance – Rome had it all. Or so she believed.
It had rained for days. Water ran down the escalators into the subways and dripped from the ceilings as they waited for trains. They trudged from the Colosseum to the Pantheon in the drizzle, dodging puddles around the edges of fenced-off archaeological sites where artefacts lay in various states of collapse and degradation.
Simon zips up the bag.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
This afternoon the sun came out, at last, and he is on a mission – backlit arches, soaring domes, shadowy colonnades, columns Doric, Corinthian, Ionic. She’s followed him around before, carrying his bag, then waited in bed for hours while he manipulated the best images to photoshopped perfection.
She has read that expectations are just resentments waiting to happen.
The door closes and the sound of his footsteps recedes. Cora pours herself a glass of wine. On the street, the car in the sinkhole looks like a modern day relic spewing from the ground. A Vespa swerves around it.
In the distance the dome of St Peter’s rises above the terracotta rooftops. The sky is fading to mauve and grey above the silhouetted line of the city. And yet the sky is moving. Black clouds are dancing, in shape shifting patterns that fold and dive and transform before her eyes. She opens the door and steps out on to the narrow balcony. Disbelieving, she puzzles at the choreography, realising that she is seeing birds, by the thousand, the tens of thousands, moving in formation like billowing silk caught on a breeze.
She watches until it’s too dark to see, her spirits soaring with the murmuration. Across the narrow street, there are people at tables in a tiny courtyard. There’s a conversation in English, a little laughter and music. It could be a long evening on her own. She pulls on a jacket and steps out.
Rosemary McBryde
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