"Re Rosso, caro." Pippa squeezed his hand tightly before letting go, moving to stand before him. "Didn't you wonder at people recognizing you yesterday?" There was the faintest trace of wry amusement in the question; it didn't linger.
She was watching him as closely as he was looking at the sculpture, drinking in all the details with avid focus. What she saw had Pippa lifting a hand to rest against Rory's chest. He complimented her work but there was something not right here, not right with him. Time apart and arguments aside, she still knew this man well. Or so she thought. "I tried. When I left New York, I tried to not think about you. Not want you or need you. I didn't even want to love you because it hurt so much."
Her hand slid down the soft blue fabric of his shirt, fingers splaying over his stomach and the firm muscles she felt there, solid. Strong. "I couldn't help it, Ro. It doesn't seem to matter how hard things are, how wrong, how horrible--I couldn't stop thinking about you. I go to sleep and you are there in my dreams. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up. You're in everything I do and feel."
The redhead turned away as she continued to talk, the words tumbling freely now, walking to her master piece. The thing that caused so much strife between herself and the maestro, not that Rory needed to know that part of things. "At first, I told myself I needed to let go and forget. Just stop tormenting myself because it was over. The best part of my life was gone." Her hands slide up and over the red glass, its smooth surface as familiar to her as the contours of his face, his body. "Didn't matter, you know. Didn't help, so I tried sketching these images just to get them out of my head. I filled sketchbooks full of renderings. So many of them, every angle, all from memory. All of you."
She hung her head, laughed without humor, as she recalled the frenzied way she had worked, relentlessly striving for perfection and trying to capture every detail in an impossibly flat medium. Glass was to be the only way. That realization had shocked her then and it unsettled her now. "Rory, it wasn't Venice or Alessandro that gave me back my glass. It was you.
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She was watching him as closely as he was looking at the sculpture, drinking in all the details with avid focus. What she saw had Pippa lifting a hand to rest against Rory's chest. He complimented her work but there was something not right here, not right with him. Time apart and arguments aside, she still knew this man well. Or so she thought. "I tried. When I left New York, I tried to not think about you. Not want you or need you. I didn't even want to love you because it hurt so much."
Her hand slid down the soft blue fabric of his shirt, fingers splaying over his stomach and the firm muscles she felt there, solid. Strong. "I couldn't help it, Ro. It doesn't seem to matter how hard things are, how wrong, how horrible--I couldn't stop thinking about you. I go to sleep and you are there in my dreams. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up. You're in everything I do and feel."
The redhead turned away as she continued to talk, the words tumbling freely now, walking to her master piece. The thing that caused so much strife between herself and the maestro, not that Rory needed to know that part of things. "At first, I told myself I needed to let go and forget. Just stop tormenting myself because it was over. The best part of my life was gone." Her hands slide up and over the red glass, its smooth surface as familiar to her as the contours of his face, his body. "Didn't matter, you know. Didn't help, so I tried sketching these images just to get them out of my head. I filled sketchbooks full of renderings. So many of them, every angle, all from memory. All of you."
She hung her head, laughed without humor, as she recalled the frenzied way she had worked, relentlessly striving for perfection and trying to capture every detail in an impossibly flat medium. Glass was to be the only way. That realization had shocked her then and it unsettled her now. "Rory, it wasn't Venice or Alessandro that gave me back my glass. It was you.
"It was you."