William Grant is wandering through the avenues of Florence, Italy with his beautiful girlfriend named Isabella. They giggle to each other softly and secretly, passing under the ancient arches and crumbling cathedrals of the narrow and romantic street. They exchange passionate kisses and sly glances, and all passersby who see them think wistfully of springtime romances and sweet lavender. William Grant thinks that he could never be happier.
And then his alarm goes off.
Will grunts and swings his arm around in the general direction of the snooze button of his alarm clock, only succeeding in ceasing the siren after knocking virtually everything else off of his bed stand. “Five minutes, please,” he begs the clock. He wants to return to Italy, to Isabella. He’s only met her the previous night, but already he finds himself dreaming about her. I’ve really gone and done it this time, he thinks ruefully to himself. A hopeless romantic, Will has had extremely short but passionate flings with women ever since he was 26, and he is now 28. Two years of hopeless loves and losses. But all that changed last night, with Isabella. She was so different from Opal and Sally, who he’d tried out the previous week, with disappointing results. He’s already nearly forgotten about them, and only remembers their names and faces with extreme concentration.
Will, reconciled to his fate, swings out of his bed and trundles towards his shower, only to realize halfway through the shower that his alarm is still sounding. He has to quickly wrap a towel around his midsection, run in, and unplug the damn thing. He can only pray that he didn’t get anything too wet, but of course he does (his favorite leather shoes, which are lying on the floor and still stained with blood). “Oh, no,” he mutters, looking at his now-ruined footwear. He’ll have to get new ones somehow; they were a part of his “romance suit”, as he calls it. He doesn’t feel comfortable around women without his romance suit on or nearby. He also never wears it out on his day-to-day business, since he feels that doing so will spoil whatever mysterious charm his romance suit possesses.
Will stands staring at the ruined shoes for approximately thirty minutes, dead to the world, until the bong of the clock tower outside brings him out of his stupor. Chuckling to himself over how upset he had gotten over a silly pair of shoes, he finishes his shower and brushes his teeth, singing, ” That’s Amore” to himself loudly and out of tune.
Fully awake now, Will practically dances down the stairs to his kitchen, eager to see the object of his affection once more. He schmaltzes into the kitchen, adopting a Humphrey Bogart voice, and cries out, “Schweetheart! I’ve mished ya. C’mere and gimme a kish!”
Lost in the throes of love, Will dreamily opens the fridge and takes out Isabella (or what is left of her). He begins to hum a waltz, kissing Isabella periodically between the notes. “Listen, baby; it’s our song. Shall we dance? Silence is acquiescence, my dear. What’s that? You’d love to? Oh, DARLING!” He swings her about in an elegant and passionate two-step, spilling congealed blood all over the kitchen. He knows he will have to clean it up later, but it’s worth it to spend quality time with his “best girl”, as he affectionately calls her. Just as he had called Opal and Sally.
After their dance is over, Will delicately places Isabella back into her cubby in the fridge, and grabs the milk from behind her ear. He then shuts the fridge door, but not before whispering, “I’ll be back soon, darling,” into his beloveds ear. Humming his beautiful waltz loudly, Will pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. As always, he goes immediately for the marshmallows. He simply can’t control his instincts most of the time. His overwhelming desire for sugar overshadows all rational thought in his mind, and he devours the marshmallows like a rabid dog. Afterwards, he stirs the remaining, not-marshmallowy bits reflectively. Today he has work, and that means pretending. He doesn’t want to have to pretend, but he knows that it is what people do. It is a part of them. As much a part of them as breathing and sleeping. As much a part of them as love is a part of him. So he gulps the rest of his sugary milk, kisses Isabella goodbye with promises to return soon, and departs for work.
