The Italian doctor
Summer is an unbearably beautiful season.
Each window stays open to provide cooling on short nights.
The shoes are flat, the skirts blue and tight.
Days are long, so that we can say more than usual.
We look each other in the eye longer.
The doctor is standing in his living room,
looking at his art collection.
Wagner, du Pasquier, Zrnec.
He nods in satisfaction and straightens his mustache.
The doctor always wanted to become an artist.
But instead he became a doctor. He is an art collector.
He knows about art, because he reads about Giorgio Agamben.
Four days have passed since they left him.
At night they had always slept deeply.
They had talked about meeting Venus in Florence,
knowing they would never beat her in tennis.
One was writing, the other was looking at the art.
He thinks they are lovers.
They had rented a car.
They are on their way to Naples.
How anachronistic, he thinks.
He has more important things to do now.
He has to go to the hospital and treat his patients.
A man calls him and whines over pain when urinating.
The doctor hangs up and sighs.
The sultry air in Milan bothers him.
Soon he will be in Naples to meet them again.
And to go on a vacation.
You can do that in Italy.