Free Kissing in Italian by Lauren Henderson

corrections, the only sounds my slippered feet on the stone floor shuffling back and forth, and a quiet hum coming from between my slightly parted lips, a habit I’ve fallen into when I’m working. It isn’t a conscious decision when, eventually, I stop; my body seems to decide it for me. I know that I’m done whenI yawn, put down the charcoal, start rolling my head in a circle, and then shrugging my shoulders, easing out the stiffness that’s come from—I look at the clock—over two hours, working solidly.
    I feel amazing, though exhausted from concentrating. I realize I’m grinning from ear to ear. I look at what I’ve done, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh. The portrait isn’t perfect, not by any means. But it’s definitely improved. Evan’s eyes look more the way they did when he smiled at me by the pool, crinkled at the outer corners; it was really hard to get those crinkles done without making them look like crow’s-feet, turning him into an old man, and I haven’t quite managed it.
    Luigi’s coming the day after tomorrow for another art class
, I think as I yawn again, switch off the studio lights, and step outside into the dark.
I can show him this. I bet he’ll be impressed I’ve been working on my own
.
    It’s past eleven. Lights are still on in the house, streaming out from the french doors of the den, and I hear the TV still going. The film must have finished; they’ll be on to something else by now. I walk slowly through the garden, coming down from the high of a successful sketching session, past the rose beds, and up the little flight of stone steps.
    It’s so lovely and peaceful out here. I sit down on the top step, enjoying the calm and the varied sounds of the Tuscan night. An owl, hooting as it dives for its prey, its wings beating softly, and the squeaks of a mouse as the owl’s talons close around it. Bats, rustling in the cypress trees where they nest. A dog, barking far across the valley, probably at the wild boar that come out at night to forage for berries andhazelnuts and walnuts. I’ve never seen a live one, but there’s a stuffed boar in the village outside the butcher’s, and it’s so formidable that I’m quite happy to have skipped that experience so far.
    Then I hear a heavy rustling sound in the neatly clipped bay hedge that borders the lawn, and I stiffen, listening intently. It stops, and I relax, thinking it must have been the wind: but then it starts again, and I know it definitely isn’t the wind. It’s like an animal trying to push its way through, or rooting at the base of the hedge for food.
    Oh no, not a boar! Not this close to the house, surely!
I stare nervously at the hedge. It’s dark, but I can see the leaves moving in a clump. There’s definitely something in there. I would think it was a dog, but there are none at the villa, and though we see the occasional half-feral cat, no cat’s big enough to make that much noise.…
    This is crazy.
    My brain’s spinning, working out what I’ll do if a wild boar comes through the hedge. I picture the spot where the sounds are coming from and visualize what’s below it, another short flight of stone steps that leads to a smaller lawn below. I can’t get to the house: the boar will emerge onto the lawn, blocking my access. I could try to nip back to the studio, but then how would I know when it was okay to come out? I could be in there all night!
    You idiot
, I tell myself furiously.
Why did you have to start thinking about boar? It’s like you made one appear by thinking about it!
    I’m biting my lip, trying to keep really still, as the bushes rustle more and more. I’m tucked in, my back against thestone pillar at the top of the steps, and there are no lights anywhere near me. I’m completely in the dark; if I don’t move, the boar might not spot me. And if it does, I can dash down the steps and make for the studio.
    Dry leaves crackle against each other as a dark shape emerges