Whipped
i.
Bruce gives her his genuine smile (the faintly lopsided one) like he's secretly laughing at her when she says this is Italy and she wants to go shoe-shopping. They walk through the shops downtown, anyway. What really surprises her is the art everywhere: fountains, statues, mosaics. Even some of the buildings are carefully crafted.
Selina never thought she'd see art and beauty and elegance in the marble archway half-hiding a garden, as flowering vines trailed over it, pale blossoms peeking out at her.
ii.
The shop they actually walk into has absolutely no shoes. Instead she sees belts and whips. More whips than belts. Tawses, cat-tails, thick-braided bullwhips.
The old man behind the counter smiles at her. She can practically feel his eyes drop to her ass as she walks through his shop.
She looks over her shoulder, gives him a you-have-one-chance glare, but he's looking at her hands, her wrists, the line of her forearm and her elbow.
And then he reaches under the counter and produces a single black bullwhip. "Per la bella gatta," he says, offering it to her.
iii.
It's a quick flick of her wrist: forward with a snap-back, subtle as nudging the pins in a finicky lock.
Roll forward — the whip unfurls — snap back — the tip cracks, right next to Bruce's ear. He jumps.
iv.
They take the whip. She pays, because she can. Selina could take it if she wanted, but she actually has the money to buy things, now, and no criminal record. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts, right?