Truism 21: Decadence can be an end of itself.
The little girl skipped around, babbling on and on as the little red-headed boy just stared at her, looking rather annoyed.
"Don't treat me so lightly, G.! You'll see! Someday I'll be a great lady, with a huge manor of my own. I'll be just like all those pretty ladies in the square, riding in fancy carriages, drinking fine wines, dancing and being wooed by handsome men! I'll never have to worry about anything because I'll have servants to do everything for me. I can read, sleep late, ride horses all day! And then you'll be sorry for ever calling me that!"
"Che! Grow up, will ya? How's a little street-rat like you going to do that," the boy teased the little girl, smirking down at her dirty, smeared face.
"I will! I will!" She screamed back at him. "Just you wait and see!"
G. only grinned at how easy it was to get a rise out of his little companion. "Fine then. I'll wait to see that when it never happens," he teased before tossing her his handkerchief. "Now clean up a bit so we can go get something to eat. My treat."
Waking up slowly, the last vesiges of the dream (memory, memories were more like it) slipped free from G.'s mind. Blearily opening his eyes, he took a few moments to adjust to his surroundings, slowly blinking as he looked around the fancy room, not recognizing anything. It took a few seconds before his sleep befuddled mind remembered exactly where he was - a hotel in Genoa of course. He'd been sent here two days ago, on a mission from his beloved boss and friend Giotto. The mission had been completed earlier that morning and he'd returned to his hotel to get some sleep. Looking out the windows at the early evening sky, streaked in the golds and reds of the setting sun, he yawned, trying to blink himself out of his memories of you, his old childhood friend.
Genoa, eh? It was funny how the memories of you had come rushing back as soon as he heard the location assigned to him by the Primo. Genoa...where you and your dirt-poor family had moved all those years ago, your father constantly moving your too-large family all over Italy in search of work. He wondered absently if you were still in the area. Silly thought though. It was unlikely, given the nomadic nature of your family that you had stayed in Genoa for too long. Shame though, he would've loved to see you again. You had been such a beautiful girl when you were younger, so full of life and fire. He'd been so enraptured by you, poor, dirty and shabby as you were.
Sighing, he pushed himself off the bed and reached to retrieve his coat and shoes. He might as well go for a walk, grab something to eat before he headed back to Roma and his family. And that's just what he did, leaving the inn and just randomly walking. It wasn't until a few hours later, as he stopped at a cart full of pretty trinkets, thinking of taking something back for his sometimes lover in Roma, that he decided, on a whim, to ask the cart-keeper if he knew of you. Was tracking down an old friend, so he told him.
He hadn't been expecting anything more than a 'no, never heard of her, sorry Mister,' from the cart-keeper. It was to his surprise when the cart-keeper not only recognized the name but could give him an address as to where he could find you. Thanking the man profusely, he headed off, going to track down the address given to him.
It took him a while to find him and another surprise tingled through him. The neighborhood the street was on was a lush neighborhood, rich and decadent, full of sweeping, grand houses and neatly manicured shrubbery.
But it was the next surprise that really threw him for a loop. Walking up to the address, he caught a glimpse of the interior through the large windows. Lit up as they were, warm and inviting light fell on the scene inside. It wasn't an odd scene, not for this type of area. One of a courtesan, surrounded by well-groomed men as she entertained them, flirting, fluttering here and there among them, sipping a glass of ruby red wine as she bestowed kisses to few blessed souls. She was so beautiful, clean and polished. For a second, G. swore that she looked out the window and caught his eye. At least, he caught hers as he stared through the window. Beautiful (eye color) eyes, just the color yours had been...but they weren't your eyes any more. Because they were dead eyes, nothing more going on behind them like there had been before, when a million emotions had lit them up, darkened them, made them come alive.
Turning away, G. turned back down the walk, pushing his hands into the pocket of his coat. He felt like crying, but of course, he didn't. What was the point? He should've known after all - time killed everything, in one way or another.