( FROM A NEW PERSPECTIVE

[HARLOW ELIZABETH MARTINI.]

there was something about being home in liguria that bothered harlow. made her want to scratch her skin till it turned red and pull at her hair until she had none at all. maybe it was melodramatic, but it seemed like fate was playing a sick game and harlow was it's main pawn. only half of the things she planned worked out as they were supposed to, but maybe that was fate's way of telling her to stop planning, put her lists aside. those lists were her hopes and her dreams, though, and it wasn't easy putting those aside.

she was, though. that was why she was home. her parents had kept up appearance, kept their heads held high and their attitudes at their prime. had thrown a party for harlow's arrival in liguria. while their neighbors and old friends thought it a common, kind gesture, harlow saw it as another debt she would have to work off. her father was a fisherman and a salesman and her mother was his trophy wife, his most prized possession. harlow was supposed to be one of those, a photograph on the mantle to brag about, but with her parents carelessness, their was no possible way harlow could just be a photograph on the mantle. she had to be there. she had to help. she had to save her parents from admitting they had done wrong, though they had. she had to save the home she'd grown up in, that relatives and old family friends came from all over to stay at. she had to swallow her pride and put her family first.

she felt like she was walking backwards. she'd gone from harvard back to this village. home was where the heart was, and harlow's heart was no where to be found. not here. not harvard. not london. harlow doubted if she ever even had one, bet that if she did she had it locked away somewhere. that would be like harlow, to take her most vulnerable part and lock it away where no one could ever find it, but hold hope that someone would. you're ridiculous, harlow, you know that right? you're trying to write a fairytale in this head of yours. one that no one will read, no one will believe in, and that won't come true. harlow was the master of self-scolding. she'd been on her own so long, she had to scold herself or no one would.

she tried to remember the last time she was close to someone and she couldn't remember. she had friends, of course. a couple, anyway. sort of. she had boyfriends. in the past. a couple. sort of. she'd dated but she hadn't perfected that art. she had a brief relationship while at harvard with her now friend and tenant, jonathan wolfsheim, but the two had been so different they were lucky they had lasted a week. he was wild and unpredictable and reminded her of someone from her past, but there was not even a glimmer of hope for them. he was her type, though, it seemed. she was lured by the type. bad boys. boys who found her challenging, a prize worth having. she guessed she really did want to be a photograph on someone's mantle, a prize, a token.

she couldn't settle her mind, couldn't calm herself down. so she walked. she left her shoes at home and didn't care that she was still dressed from an early evening at calore. not many would be out at this hour and those who were, were bound to be used to the sight of a barely dressed woman with wild eyes. she rubbed her arms as she walked, keeping goose flesh at bay, her feet leading her to the shoreline. she did that a lot and she couldn't figure out why. you know why, harlow, don't play stupid. she knew what had happened there, knew what she did, who she'd done it with. she knew that much, yes. she didn't know why she kept going there, though. maybe because there was a small part of her that liked to think back to that evening, liked to think back and see his face in her mind and the water behind him. maybe it was just because she liked the smell and the damp air of the sea. either way, no matter the reason, she kept returning.

she plopped down in the sand, almost gracefully, as if she'd intended to hit the ground as hard as she had. the sand scratched the back of her bare thighs, but she didn't mind. she dug her feet into the sand as best she could, before beginning to bury them with her hands and the sand. she closed her eyes and laid back, her feet half buried, sand under her fingernails, her dark hair fanned out. she admired the sky, but she wasn't really seeing things, she was thinking. about everything. anything. thinking got her in trouble, though, in small towns like this, with simple folk. she closed her eyes tight and shook her head, as if to shake the thoughts away. when she opened her eyes again, she expected to actually see the stars, to take them all in, but instead she saw someone looking at her. she sat up straight, stood quickly, shaking sand from her hair. wha- wh- hey! you - you can't just sneak up on people like that! jesus christ! she grabbed at her chest, her pulse racing. it occurred to her that this person probably didn't speak english, so she looked back, ready to repeat herself, a little more surely, in italian. she recognized his face though, and she was speechless again. no fucking way.

( VALENTINO

[/justify]

[VALENTINO GIOVANNI PANCRAZIO.]

Valentino was a successful man. After all, at age twenty four, he'd already had his own restaurant for five years. He'd never gone to college, never needed some professor to give him homework as if doing things he'd already learned in class was going to improve his ability to apply them. His memory was good enough for that. He'd rarely attended his high school, never needed some teacher to tell him he wasn't going to college when he'd already deduced that for himself in a much less insulting manner. His parents hadn't cared. They knew their son was bright, knew that despite the fact that he would come home drunk at two in the morning or sometimes not at all, he had a good head and knew what he was doing. And Val himself wouldn't have cared if they knew or not, because he knew and that was enough.

However, despite his success, Val couldn't help but constantly feel that there was something he was missing, some great big piece of life that others had and he didn't. He had money, he could do whatever he wanted with it. His family life wasn't perfect, but it was nice, they were close, he had people he could depend on. Friends, too, he never had to want for - some that were telling him not to do some of the stupid shit he did, some that were doing it with him. There was no category he was lacking in. He had the same as most everyone else in the world, if not more. But when he looked around, everyone else seemed happier in a way. He was happy, he had fun, he did what he wanted, but it felt different. Like there was some secret he was being left out on. He hated the feeling.

In general, he tried not to think about it. His life was great, he didn't want to ruin a perfectly good day by concentrating on something so morbid and inevitably unchangeable. After all, he'd certainly tried to do something about it, to fill in that empty space anyway he could, but to no avail. Tonight was an exception, which over the years seemed to be becoming more and more frequent. He hadn't gotten drunk or high, which wasn't exactly unusual but certainly made the situation more likely. In fact, aside from that, nothing significant had happened at all. Val had been sitting among friends one moment, talking, laughing. The next thing he knew, he looked over to see his closest male friend kissing his girl. His vision seemed to shade, that feeling settled in his stomach, and a minute later he was walking out the door.

He wasn't sure why he headed to the beach, didn't bother questioning it. He knew exactly where he was going in the back of his mind, though he pretended not to, pretended he was walking for the sake of walking without any destination. It was supposed to be that simple, it was hardly fair that it wasn't. He preferred things to be simple, or at least easy enough to sort out that they wouldn't cause him any discomfort. This beach was a reminder of everything in his life that wasn't simple, in the form of a single night.

It wasn't like he'd never spent time with a girl on the beach before, or even that he'd never had sex with one there before. He had, both before and after that one incident. But somehow, whenever he went near it, it wasn't the tall blonde or the girl with a pixie cut or the tourist with the bright orange nails that he remembered. And the fact that he couldn't figure out why bugged him to no end. Was it because they'd talked first, that he'd gotten to know her and remembered what she was like? That she was a virgin? That she was the only girl to be gone before he woke up? Maybe. Could be. Might be. He wish he knew, because maybe then he'd be able to move on and stop feeling like he was living in the hope that a night like that would happen again. Where did that come from? He dismissed it. He didn't want to know.

The figure on the sand that was slowly growing larger as he walked in its direction didn't even register in his mind for the longest time. Then it laid down. Was it unconscious? He didn't care, not really. But there was something inexplicably familiar about that lean frame, or maybe the tint of her hair even in the dark. The curve of her nose and chin in the side profile that was becoming clear? There was no way. He was putting a face to a figure because he'd been thinking of her, that was all. Coincidences like that didn't happen. There was no chance he'd be able to recognize her now, eight years later. He doubted she'd even been done growing, the last time he saw her... But the more he tried to convince himself, the less convinced he was, until he silently walked up beside her, peering down at her. Yes, it was her... He was either dreaming or drunk.

And then she was talking, much too fast for his dazed mind to keep up with, and it took him a moment longer than it should have to respond. He should have assumed she wouldn't recognized him, apologized for being a creep, walked away. He didn't. "Uh," he said, helpfully. "Hello."

[HARLOW ELIZABETH MARTINI.]

she was trying to convince herself that she wasn't seeing him. she was trying to convince herself that she had been thinking of him and placed his face on some stranger, or that she'd fallen asleep and dreamed him there. she was shaking, suddenly, goose bumps rising along her flesh, at her arms and on her legs. she crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her bare arms, realizing that maybe she should have worn more for a stroll at such a late hour. ooooh, she moaned, sounding very much like someone that was going to vomit. she wouldn't be surprised if she did in that moment, her thoughts were bouncing around so quickly she was surprised she was still standing straight and well balanced.

she blinked several times, her long, soft lashes hitting her cheeks. the more she blinked, the more she saw that she wasn't imagining him, wasn't imagining his face. it was the same face she had perfectly etched into her cerebrum. aged eight years or so, of course. he hadn't changed much, though he certainly was more man than anything now. he seemed uneasy, but harlow couldn't tell if that was because he'd recognized her, too, or because she'd jumped to her feet and began scolding him in the blink of an eye. either way, she didn't want to recognize him. not first. not before he could recognize her. she was sure he'd long since forgotten her face, her name, and everything she'd ever told him, though. she felt stupid for even considering he had thought of her as often as she had him.

after they'd had sex, she'd avoided him for the final few weeks of summer. during the summers following, she avoided him if possible, and pretended not to notice him or to know him when they ended up in the same location at the same time. she was half embarrassed, she was half playing hard to get. he'd liked that. that was then, though, and this was now. there was no avoiding him or hurrying to leave. well, she could, but she'd look more foolish that way. uh, she started like he had, nodding, gulping, and licking her lips in one swift action. hello.

smooth, harlow. really, you deserve an oscar for that performance. harlow began to chew on the inside of her lip, a habit she picked up during school, chewing away the nerves while she was studying or taking an exam. i'm sorry, she said, her voice clearer and more confident now. i just wasn't expecting anyone to be here this late. i'm sort of new around her - just back from school - if this is your usual place or something, i'd be happy to leave. i don't want to be any trouble. she tended to speak a lot when she was nervous, but as long as her voice stayed this steady, she was sure she could play this off just fine. she used her right hand to hold her hair away from her face, keeping her left arm crossed over her chest and holding onto the upper part of her right arm. she offered him a smile.

i'm harlow martini, and i'm so sorry. she was good. if her heart didn't belong to words and punctuation and proper grammar, she could be an amazing actress. she could dazzle an audience, as long as they only laid their eyes on her. if they laid their hands on her, she was sure they'd hear and feel the racing of her heart, how clammy her palms had grown, the tension in the muscles of her arms, back, buttocks, legs, and notice how her toes curled into the sand. her eyes averted to her curled toes, waiting for him to say something. anything. she'd be happy if he just simply dismissed her, as long as he said something.

[/justify]

[VALENTINO GIOVANNI PANCRAZIO.]

The fact that she was there, and even more so that he was speechless - something that just didn't happen - had failed to register in Val's brain as of yet. What were the chances? Was it even possible? Tonight, of all nights? Fuck, he wished he was drunk. Wished she had a twin sister, but remembered from their discussion that night that she certainly didn't. Wished he'd left her alone to avoid such an awkward, horribly, horribly awkward moment. Wished, in the seconds in between his greeting and her response, that he could disappear before he had a chance to hear it, that way he could go on imagining it and not have to deal with it at face value. He was good at that.

When she moaned, Val became uncertain, and considered taking a step back. Surely she wasn't going to vomit? Not that he was concerned, of course. He wasn't concerned for anyone. He just didn't want to be the object she threw up on. Keep telling yourself that. He didn't really have a response, didn't have a chance to ask her if she was all right - though, by the sound of her voice, he was fairly certain he knew the answer - before she mimicked his words, and for a half-mad moment, he imagined he was high off his ass at home, staring in the mirror and imagining the whole damn thing. But no, there she was, more real than he could ever have imagined her if he'd tried. A shame, really. His memories, his musings about how she would've grown and developed hadn't done her justice.

He listened to her speak, his voice perfectly impassive though his thoughts were racing. Could she really not recognize him? That would be a blow to the ego, but certainly possible... No. He could see it. He didn't know how, but he could tell. Her voice was more strained than he remembered it, not an effect of aging. She was chewing her lip as she spoke. The girl was good, born to be an actress, but he was a businessman and he knew the signs, especially when paired up with the smooth, flawless voice of his memories. So she was so desperate not to let him know that she recognized him? Ouch. That one hurt. Not that he'd ever admit it, to her, himself, or anyone else. That just wasn't his style.

He continued to listen without interrupting. Harlow Martini. So that was her name. He'd never learned it, he realized. Never asked, never thought of it. That night hadn't been at all about thinking into the future, it was all about the moment. Fascination didn't eliminate frustration, however. She wasn't going to get off that easy, not when he had to face the knowledge that he knew who she was. "Valentino Pancrazio," he responded, his tone even, almost cool. He continued to watch her, his eyes absorbing everything they possibly could. She was curvier now. Her hair was rounder, her lips a little more full, her eyebrows perhaps a bit more arched. She'd been exceptionally pretty back when he'd known her, seemed older than her age. Now she was beautiful, and she was a woman, there was no doubt about it.

"You remember me." It wasn't a question; he wasn't stupid enough to make it one. If he had, she could've passed it off with a, 'hmm? No, I'm sorry, I don't,' or a, 'Not really, should I?' or a, 'i guess you look a little familiar...' match with an odd look. Any one of those would have left him no choice but to agree, or give her the option of appearing more than a little freaked out and bolting. He wasn't going to allow that. He should have allowed it, should have forced it, even, but tonight he wasn't listening to himself. He was long past that at this point. What did he hope to accomplish? Val didn't know. At the very least, some closure. At the most... at the most what? He wasn't willing to answer that for himself

[HARLOW ELIZABETH MARTINI.]

harlow hadn't realized how far she'd stepped back - or jumped back, more's like it - until she felt the cold water lap up against the back of her calves. she felt trapped. step closer to him or stay at the water's edge, feet wet. she stepped forward some, just far enough that the water couldn't reach her. he was taller now, while she hadn't grown in height at all since then. she'd been five feet and three inches since she was sixteen and while she hated it, she had to get used to it, martini women were short. she tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear when she looked back up at him. no sooner could she say it's nice to meet you was he calling her on her bullshit.

he was good. good at reading her - or people in general. good at making her fold. good at enraging her. why couldn't he have let her keep up her charade? she furrowed her brows, half in frustration, half preparing to put him in his place. for him to know that, he'd have to have remembered her, too. when she opened her mouth to speak, though, a laugh came out. harlow had many laughs. the one that came out when she wasn't amused at all. the one that came out when she was drinking and everything sent her into a fit of giggles. there was the one she had learned to let off when with her school friends. a short laugh, a quiet laugh, one that let you know she was actually amused, but didn't embarrass her. then there was her natural laugh. the laugh that flew right out, practically fluid, that made her head fall back some and called for attention. it was an italian laugh. it was a martini laugh. that was the laugh the came out.

her head fall back some when she laughed and she covered her mouth with her hand after a second, thankful there wasn't much more than a few distant street lights and the moon. enough to show off her face, but to keep the tinge of her blushing cheeks private. she nodded, trying to sober up and let her laughter slip away. she managed after a moment and looked back at him, her eyes having searched the beach for something other than him to look at. she nodded, a grin on her warm face. i remember you, she echoed in agreement. and you remember me.

you're good. people usually can't call me on my bullshit. she wanted to be serious now, to seem unaffected at all by his presence or his knowledge, but her mouth obviously wasn't receiving this message, still stretched in a grin. i didn't think you'd still be here. in liguria. on the beach. she wanted to add right where i left you, but she figured now wasn't the time to tap dance on his ego. he didn't deserve it. he hadn't done anything wrong. she had left him, after all. she'd done so as a wise woman, though. left before he could leave her. she reached down and brushed sand from her bare legs, her grin finally receding.

she'd remembered him perfectly, but she'd forgotten how intimidating it could be to just be in his presence. she'd lived in london. she'd gone to an ivy league university. she could have had her pick of careers. she could have had a lot of things. she should feel like the one with the upper hand here, but she didn't. how could she be when the man who had her virginity, a handful of her secrets, and those brown eyes she could swim in was standing just a few feet away, towering over her. he was beautiful, he was free to do as he pleased. she envied that. always had. she noticed that she was now dusting nothing off of her legs, the sand long gone, and she finally lifted her face to look at him. i remember you perfectly, she added, though she had already admitted that.

[/justify]

[VALENTINO GIOVANNI PANCRAZIO.]

Her laugh startled him, though not in a bad way. It brought back memories, unwanted ones, in a torrent that flooded his mind. He'd only known her for a few hours, sure, but he remember almost all of them, remembered each of her individual expressions and how she pronounced her vowels and the way her eyes would change depending on what she was talking about and, most of all, her laugh. He could be romantic when he wanted to be, but Val certainly wasn't the romantic type - never had been, doubted he ever would be. However, a girl's laugh was something that really grabbed his attention. After all, most people laughed more than anything else in their life time. It told a lot about a person, and he liked learning.

The light was dim, depressingly so. He wanted to shine a flashlight over her, examine every inch of her body, every mark and curve. Wanted to be able to see her expression perfectly clearly. To some degree, he could, but there was a depth to it that he was deprived of, thanks in most to the dark night. Valentino remained silent even as her laughter died away, not having known that his own lips had quirked upwards in a natural smile - so natural that its presence was even still unknown to him as it followed her laughter and made itself scarce.

When she announced she remembered him, his heart did a tiny jump, one he ignored most adamantly. He'd already known she did, he reminded himself. But it's nice to hear, anyway. Not that it mattered. Not that it should matter. When she added that he remembered her, which was fairly obvious but a valid point none the less, he nodded. He was still unusually silent, which bothered him to know end, but what was there to say? He only hoped he wasn't coming off as especially creepy because of it; that was the last thing he wanted right now, which could be considered a big deal for a guy like him. Normally, he didn't give a rat's ass what other people thought of him or the way he acted. It wasn't so much that he wanted to impress her - he was a bit too preoccupied at the moment to think about doing so - as that he wanted the chance to later on. He just didn't know it yet.

"I call a lot of bullshit," he answered wryly. It was hardly something to brag about, but he was more stating the truth than gloating. It was a strong point of his, if you could call it that. Really, it just made him miserable and annoyed the people around him. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and no one wants to be told they're lying. At her comment that she hadn't expected him to be there, he chuckled, a deep sound that was obviously not as quiet as it was at the moment, in such an awkward situation and on a beach whose quietness was unknowingly affecting him. "I live here," he reminded her, though he couldn't recall if he'd ever even told her that, and assumed that even if he had, it would've been fair to assume he'd moved. He remembered everything about her from that night, but little about himself.

At her added information that she'd remembered him perfectly, the smile died again, this time replaced by a complex expression that was the result of many things going through his head at once. "I remember you, too," he admitted slowly, acknowledging that he, too, had already said as much. "Perfectly." And he did. Already, he was trying to imagine what the rest of these thoughtful nights would be like. When he thought about her in the future, would he imagine her from that first night, or from this one? Could he possibly hold on to both images? Of course. Somehow, he had the feeling this was all just going to make life that much more difficult.