She'd had no trouble remembering the Italian word.
It slid into her head as the thing itself would just as swiftly slide between her ribs should he so intend it.
Like Cornetto, which she‘d known since childhood. An occasional Saturday treat when her Dad came back from paying the papers, having treated himself (that’s what he always said) to ‘some decent shag’. He always looked at her Mum funny when he said that, as if it were a secret. Her Mum always smiled back, putting her treat into the black Wedgewood vase which had been a wedding present, arranging them carefully as she always did. Then she always said 'You'll have to wait 'til after dinner.'
Like vaporetto. She’d read it in the guidebooks and like so much of Venice it had seemed exotic before she got here and then so ... so expected once she had arrived. But still exciting. She’d written on a postcard to her sister that she’d been on one, the picture on the other side had been of the Rialto Bridge.
She crossed over that. Then she’d just wandered, following her nose, sort of looking for Tintoretto’s house – another 'etto' one! – because of wanting to see the funny, ugly statue outside.
But she’d gone wrong somewhere, crossed the wrong bridge – they were all different but it was easy to be tempted to go this way and then that. As soon as she’d seen the word, high up on the wall – Ghetto – she’d known she’d gone wrong.
That’s where he’d picked he up.
Words Inc. (Wednesday) vase, dinner, stiletto