RED AFTER MIDNIGHT
A night of velvet, candlelight, and something dangerously sweet.
The room was red, or perhaps, it had simply become so as night fell.
The walls held faded frescoes: angels with worn wings, faces that seemed to silently watch whatever was unfolding beneath them. Someone had scattered dozens of candles across the floor. Red and white. Light and shadow. Their flickering glow made the shadows dance across the walls, turning everything into something more beautiful, more dangerous.
The music came from a distant room, loud enough to make the glasses tremble on the table. In their hands, seemingly innocent drinks passed from one person to another, dark and sparkling, with tiny bubbles that seemed to hold a promise. One sip was enough to feel that electric lightness on the tongue, sweet and sharp at once, like a night that hadn’t decided where it was going yet.
Some laughed, some danced, some simply let themselves be carried away by the night, without caring about where it might lead.
He crossed the room slowly, as though the place had always belonged to him.
He wore red, but he hardly needed to: it seemed to live on his skin, in his eyes, in the way he smiled. He stopped before a fresco and raised his glass towards one of the faces.
‘To good health.’
Then he smiled.
Outside, it was already midnight.
Inside, however, everything seemed to have only just begun.
And as the candles continued to burn and the music grew louder, the house seemed to take on yet another face: warmer, more intimate, more daring.
As though that night had been made to be remembered, but not necessarily told.
Credits: Photo by Tiziano Demuro / Still Life by Emilio Murolo / Text by Federica Romano