The Duomo

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 25, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 25, 2017



The algid air carried the scent of doppio through the Piazza. The bitter sweet warmth invited tourists to experience the strong liquid running down their throats. The Duomo overshadowed the Piazza, giving the Colombaccio and the Duomo dupers shelter. Two children rushed over to the Colombaccio, wishing them to flutter in haste. The bronze statue of Victor Emmanuel II stood on his strong Naturstein horse looking towards the Duomo, emitting confidence and the smell of oxidation. The sun shines on the statue sending glare into the eyes of a tourist. Bright white cumulus clouds graze the sky, gently careening through.  The Duomo stood tall, a large 107 meters off the ground. Sculptures of strong men stood in hollow cylinders in its exterior, blending in as if waiting to strike. Some of them turning grey from it’s natural off-white color as dust drops from the skies. The Duomo’s pillars jutted out like stalagmites from the ground. The glass was stained on the inside, depicting pictures of ancient, mythical beings that were bright yellow and blue. The cross of Christ hung from the ceiling, watching over the brown pews, a sliver of light hits his chest, illuminating the tiny dust particles that loiter in the air. Its wooden frame shows sign of wear, slight cracks appear on it’s legs.


The children now run over to another flock of the Colombaccio causing them again to ruffle their wings as if remembering danger. The children’s thick jackets made it look like they were waddling while running, as their arms did not have enough space.  The girl wore large synthetic leather boots, slightly damp from humidity. The underground Pagan temple glowed with a warm light bulb, keeping secrets that would never be told. The echo of footsteps and the quick snap of camera’s reverberated through the air. A place where worship was common is filled with the aura of awe as the tourists soak the cold smell of sacred stone.


A man walked, and stumbled on a piece of loose stone on the polished ground. His recently bought brown leather shoes is scarred by the stone which embeds a small mark on the shoe. His bright yellow polo and Khakis and his plain bronze ring on his ring finger would explain the lady next to him wearing a pink floral dress that she forgot to iron in the morning. The man felt a pull, magnetic. The lady was busy screaming at her kids, who recently returned out of breath and thirsty, each of them took a swig of water from their own bottles, one bright green and one bright pink. The color scratching down to its grey aluminium.


The man longed for some coffee, the overpowering smell drew him closer yet the lady next to him tugged his hand closer towards the inviting warmth of the duomo. He imagined the roasted flavour of the coffee, bitter, yet tolerable. The torridity in the doppio would sooth his throat and cure the congestion of phlegm in his throat. He looked around trying to identify a cafe as his children scurried along behind him and his wife. He had never been fond of temples, so he was very unimpressed with the duomo, neglecting the years of labour put into the structure. All he wanted was some doppio. But deep inside him, he knew that it was more than coffee, it was her. Her blonde hair, the blue eyes, her bittersweet smell. He had only met her yesterday, but her physique was enough for him to go back. He looked into the back of his wife, boring, slow. A bad decision. He knew it was wrong, but the coffee was strong.


His footsteps slowed as he uproached the duomo, eyes still fluttering, looking for something to pique his interest. His wife handed him their camera, a black Canon D70 that cost much more than required, all of his hours slaving away for a piece of equipment they would never use after the trip. The wife scuffled backwards awkwardly trying to find a position with the least amount of tourists behind. His fingers searched for the capture button, while looking through the viewfinder. He tried to encase as much as the duomo as possible through the viewfinder, yet its sheer size caused the inability to do so.  He scanned around the viewfinder after a few pictures, hoping to find the cafe in sight, but alas, the warm glow of one was not found anywhere. He grumpily headed towards the duomo, till the sculptures were present, looking into the distance, frozen in time. He pulled out his phone, a silver iPhone which he bought to impress his clients unlocked with a press of his thumb, incredible! He searched through his memory for the name of the shop. IT was italian, bruschetta, no it was brunetti. The smell of coffee beans and her hair returned, blonde, wavy and down to her stomach. He would have to make his choice. His phone located the shop yet his wife was already entering the Duomo, a five minute walk from his location would grant him, satisfaction, some happiness, a little more… fire in his life. His mind yearned for it, yet he turned off his phone, and forced his legs onwards.


© Copyright 2018 Nir Mathur. All rights reserved.

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