I’ve only ever met one other girl called Flo. She took it as a sign that we would be life long friends
This new and dominating Flo was the same age as me with a curt, Sloan Square accent, unruly cave woman hair (that she was forever sweeping from her face) and an impressive collection of multicoloured ethic skirts of the drop-out-beach-bunny variety. She had latched onto the idea that I was as dissatisfied with high school and the modern world as she was. Perversely thrilled but unsure of how to proceed, she made a large show of how we had the same uncommon bra size and insisted that we were to share underwear over the coming weeks of our arts summer school.
Her strange admiration towards me grew. I can only assume it was because I accompanied her for countless cigarettes and entertained her stories of flirting with grown men and her fantasies of loving a Rastafarian. Her eagerness to do everything with me as a witness was flattering but it was fairly clear we had little in common beyond our names and measurements. Her strong willed denial prevented my opinions from derailing what she was fashioning as a perfect friendship. My wiliness to talk to anyone often left her feeling neglected and caused a rampant jealousy to develop. Her mood swings became drastic and contradictory as possessiveness crept in.
It all came to a head when our student group took a day trip to the coast to end the month on a high. The beach was deserted and the pier was rotten but we’d pinned our hopes on the venture and even the increasing drizzle couldn’t dissuade us. Despite the water being cold enough to induce coma, I managed to swim out far enough to float and bob. Flo wasn’t far behind and when she drew along side promptly challenged me to swim even further.
When we were safely removed from the group and had covered an impressive distance, I found her arms snaking around me in a sinking embrace. She dappled my face with brief kisses in what I assumed was an adrenalin rush brought on the icy water. It wasn’t until Flo kissed me full on the mouth, with the taste of dirt and salt, that I realised the significance she was investing in the moment. She withdrew to gage my response with desperate eyes. Sensing the redundancy of the act spoke volumes I was too overwhelmed to address, we only felt numbness distinct from the freezing sea. I swam away towards the others and hoped what had just happened would wash into the Mediterranean.
As soon as we retuned to town, Flo withdrew and downed two bottles of vodka. Her wretched screams soon filled the third floor of our sleeping hotel. I was reduced to hiding in another student’s room to avoid what I could only assume would be violence. All the misunderstood rage an 18 year old could possibly hold turned the building into a terrifying prison with me lined up for its firing squad. Eventually, the course lecturer intervened and Flo was practically sedated.
We barely had a month to get aquatinted but in that time we’d managed to skim the bond of friendship and a warped sort of love only for it to nose-dive into a blazing hotel showdown, fuelled by God knows what kinds of damage. We parted ways at the end of our time in Italy brittle strangers who, for all they had shared, would remain estranged out of a mixture of emotion and necessity.
(Better memories from Venice)
Also: Best script we've read so far this semester has been from this movie. I recommend tracking down a copy for yourself.
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