Mother Earth (by Sarah Douglas)On the first landing of the red velvet-carpeted stone staircase that leads from the lobby to the bedrooms of the Danieli Hotel, which fronts Venice's main tourist thoroughfare, the one that runs along the Grand Canal, the one that plays host to the voluble hawking of faux murano glass trinkets, there is situated a marble bust of Demeter with bare, voluminous chest, and wide pupil-less eyes, and a prim little smile, and when the couple passes by, the American man in his fifties and wearing a suit and the American woman in her late twenties or early thirties and wearing flip flop sandals and a flouncy skirt and a bikini top over which she has thrown, it appears, one of the man's crisp white oxfords, the woman pauses, rests a hand on one of the god's cool, ample breasts and squeaks, 'Oh my gosh, know what this is George? This is just like from the Great Gatsby. Remember? The billboard of the man with the glasses? How he watched them all like a sort of a god?' But the last word trails off because the man clasps her wrist, tugs her down the stairs, mumbling about how loudly she talks, and does she have to talk so loudly, and how they should just get out into the sunshine, see the Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli, as planned. He shoves on his sunglasses, ushers her past the obsequious porters, through the revolving door and onto the busy street.
[The second short short story series is announced and explained here.]