Barrow Fields Il buon pastore

Just for self-indulgent character development purposes :p

Exclamations of "che carino!" had died off abruptly in the long trawl of puberty when he entered his second year of life. He had grown into his features, grown too fast into the now sullen and distant face, his hair thinning, the corners of his mouth pulled down by some invisible force. He looked down at his wrist, fleabitten and coarsened by time. He was no longer the young man that Isotta had fallen in love with, nor the androgynous child often mistaken for a girl.

He had never given much care to his appearance before, but he could not help but notice how the planes of his jaw had softened, how extra flesh now collected in places that had once been taut and trim. Middle-aged mediocrity loomed above him, the most mundane reaper.

Then there was the meeting with the priest - sharp eyes framing an aquiline nose, a dark figure whetted by a world inmiscible. Perhaps he was a Jesuit. Pier hadn't thought to ask.

Here and now, having just survived past his third year, was faith the answer? He doubted it. He had never had the vocation and likely never would. It was entirely possible he would never see Bartholomew again, and that the encounter would remain just that - an encounter, a blip in a life spent largely on venery and violence, in calculated spiritual isolation.

A long time ago he had met another man of religion, who had caught the attention of much of his family. At dinner, the man had said:

Cari fratelli e sorelle, che bello è essere un missionario...

Back then he had laughed scornfully at his affects, each gesture dripping with what he'd thought was self-importance. But the missionary directed the conversation in the room with a skilful hand, a sort of social kinesis that had the people milling from one quadrant to another without they themselves realizing it. Pier had raised a toast, delirious and jovial to the point of mockery:

Alla tua - il buon pastore!

The words rang out into silence, sharp and painful. A different world then, oligarchy and New Age furniture. He woke up the next morning with his shirt unbuttoned, his mouth filmed over with his own debauchery. Isotta's brunette curl fell over his eyes, a logarithmic spiral that pulled him back into unconsciousness.