Barcarole

Michele ploughed the murky water, his solitary oar probing the canal floor. The cold, lead-coloured water fatigued the motion of his staff, making it feel longer and heavier in his dry hands. The boat moved slowly through the canal, and Michele sighed.

Michele didn't like his job. It was tolerable only when he pretended that his oar stretched for miles into the roily, polluted depths, and right down to the ocean floor -- to the surface of the Earth's rocky pith. That with a careful nudge, he could slide his Archimedian lever into the muddy bedrock and gently roll the world away beneath him. Tonight however, his staff felt heavier than usual, the water thicker, and the casino-bound passengers more retarded. Michele, once again, sighed.

"That's it," he announced, and, as if by this utterance alone, the lateral motion of the small boat ceased. It bobbed absently, and its two passengers waited amidst the fog and the evening breeze.

"That's it?" one of the passengers enquired. "But we're in the middle of the canal."

"Listen lady, just shut up or get the fuck out, OK?"

The couple exchanged glances. Reassuring his wife with a nod, the older gentleman assumed control of the situation.

"Excuse me, young man, but the dock is only fifteen yards from here. We're not going to get out --"

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm on my break," retorted Michele. And with that, he ripped off his fake Gondolier's moustache, and revealed a box of Camel Lights from his back pocket.

Tapping the pack several times against his palm, he nimbly removed the plastic wrap. His fingers, like obedient automatons, peeled back the foil and unearthed a cigarette, sliding it piously from the box.

Michele felt his shoulders soften from the smell of the unlit cigarette between his lips. And as the boat bobbed quietly, he leaned against his staff and pulled his lighter from the trousers of his really gay gondoliers' uniform.

His passengers watched quietly as the cigarette glowed like a beacon in the dark evening; like a lighthouse on the shores of a disappointed face. He pulled the velvet smoke through his throat and filled his lungs. Holding the smoke captive, he let it calm his stressed sinews.

He exhaled, and the remains of his cremated anxieties floated from his lips and dangled elegantly in the vapour of the evening air. All was quiet save for the gentle lapping of water against the boat's hull.

The couple grew impatient in the quietly bobbing gondola.

As Michele nourished himself with warm smoke he wrapped both his hands around his oar and pressed firmly against the surface of the Earth. The world answered as it always does: with the mere fact of its presence, immutable and steadfast. Not only did the world did not move, the gondola began to slide too. Dejected, he let the half-smoked cigarette drop from his lips and sizzle briefly before sinking in the canal. In the Stygian morass surrounding the casino, Michele sighed once more.

God, how he needed that cigarette.