ovomi

[ovomi]

katherine.

Truthfully, Katarina’s never understood the supposed allure of gambling halls. They were too crowded, too unpredictable, and in her opinion, the risks along with the likelihood of losing would always outweigh the possibility of reward. Not entirely against gambling, however, the woman merely much better enjoys more intimate crowds she knows. A place like The Dark Lady is nothing of the sort. “It might be,” Kat responds coyly. “Unless I have a reason to return.” That reason might be the woman beside her, or Shunin himself across the way. She sees Omi’s eyes make the same path her own had and stifles a smirk. Surely, it’ll be disappointing to walk away from such alluring company. And it certainly is harmless, playing that is. “It’s the resting bitch face that usually warns people away,” She shrugs. But for Omi, she smiles.

Fairy tales tend to follow the scheme of a prince (or knight) saving a damsel in distress (whether it be a princess or maiden). Many girls dream of being said damsel at least once in their life, starry-eyed and wishing for love at first sight. But then girls just like Katarina tend to favour the idea of storming castles or slaying dragons herself. And what Omi says suits her just fine: “Is this your way of saying you want to get out of here for the night?” Raising her glass, Kat toasts the woman before her before taking a sip, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I do have a white car, but… I think I’d rather some conversation first. Or another drink.” Then she turns her head towards the roulette tables. “Maybe you could be my lucky charm at the roulette wheel?”

“You will never go without purpose in my presence,” Omi assures her new companion with a hazy expression; eyes half-lidded and all-consuming. “But in that regard, I'd rather show you than tell you.” Sure, Omi’s saccharine musings were often just as effective, but when paired with action? It made all the difference. It was only fair that the beautiful stranger bears witness to both. 

With the majority of the Lady’s patrons being in pursuit of a common goal, that state of mind when the peak point of pleasure is achieved, it was only natural that they wound up in Omi’s orbit. Their profound understanding of human beings was how they became a master of illusions, fashioning personal little heavens for each person that sought them out. Rarely would they go even five minutes without capturing the attention of someone, even when they were in conversation with another. Undivided attention was key to their carefully constructed personal heavens, but there was a sense of authenticity in their attentions paid toward Katarina. One that was not out of duty or obligation to their work. Purely out of Omi’s selfish pursuit of their own fancies. “A resting bitch face wouldn't be very effective in warning me off,” Omi assures her with a thoughtful smile. In fact, that would only increase the likelihood of capturing their attention.

“I’ll go wherever the night leads us. Whether that be the roulette table or Paris,” Omi tells Katarina with an assured wink, rising to their feet and extending out a hand for Katarina’s arm. “Lead the way, darling. I wasn’t sure if you had a preferred table.”

[ovomi]

What a voice that was: deep, sweet, with a shade of throatiness, full of passion.

Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by P. A. Bien, from “Report To Greco,” publ. c. 1961 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[ovomi]

pompey.

the dark lady exists as it did around them, thrumming and vibrating with life and lust and vibrancy. piero and omi, instead, are trapped in a subliminal point of being, lost in the moment, encompassed by both their bright curiosities. he wants to walk away, but he fears that the experience of being there will be marred knowing that people see him and can instantly point out that he doesn’t belong. an older version of piero would scoff at the idea of not standing out, but the one that exists now wants to exist under the consciousness of all. he needs to be invisible until it comes time to show the merit and worth he has.

his chin juts up and he gives her a sharp nod. “ it was just idle curiosity about — ” he looks around, the glow of the lights reflecting off of his eyes, “ — this place. “ it’s true, but he keeps it brief. he’s not a fan of talking, especially not with strangers, but he thinks that won’t be a problem. the person in front of him seems the sort to chatter and prattle on. hopefully she will lead the conversation and he can do little more than smile and nod. his eyes narrow, though. “ how do you mean ? you’re my person ? ”

he thinks it likely that he will never see them again once he steps over the threshold to leave. there is nothing here that brings a siren’s call to his ears. other places in verona, however, catch his fancy. he finds himself caught by the cathedral, the lair of the capulets, where they all lurk and learn. he thinks he’ll be there more often than not, if only to learn by passive observation. it would be easy to simply stay at the small flat he calls home, to do nothing else and go nowhere until he is called upon by tiberius, but he has never done well being idle. 

piero wants to say how old he is but he bites it back. he can only think that it will come back to bite him were he to admit the grip youth still had on the scruff of his neck. “ i’m old enough that  i can hold my liquor, be assured, “ he says. some of his anger has tamped down, he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep it at bay. “ and i walked here and was planning to walk home later. “ he takes her suggestion and sits down. he folds his arms across his chest, his gaze still fixed on her.

“ piero ruiz. “  it’s a brief introduction.

“Why— I’m your person. It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Omi retorts with a teasing smirk, knowing this response wasn’t anymore clear. “I know where everything and everyone is. I could make a a pup like you feel at home. Every moment you remain by my side will earn you the utmost welcome.” It was only fair that Piero was made aware of the benefits her presence afforded, if he decided to remain there. 

A curious mind is the most entertaining mind to occupy. She met Piero’s gaze with a mutual interest, him being a person of few words, being of no issue to Omi, as she could easily fill in the required gaps. She met his reassuring words with an insightful smirk. “Every person in their late teens can hold their liquor. Almost dangerously so. That doesn’t make you old enough for a proper drink.” There was a difference between the cheap sprites and vodka that riddled her early youth, and the proper liquor she would discover on later on in life. Perhaps Omi had teased Piero enough, but the way his features stiffened out of annoyance had been absolutely adorable. “Nonsense. I’ll have someone hail you a cab.”

He sat with her with an appropriate amount of suspicion, as if to say didn’t your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers? She studied the skeptical ōji inquiringly, wondered what it was exactly that made him so guarded— knowing this was only one of many potential paths a youth took when tasked with adulthood at such a young age. Any cynicism or disdain was met with warmth and comfort. If Piero did not know that now, he would discover eventually— and that very warmness would remain there if he ever decided to reach out. Though she would raise children in this lifetime, perhaps she’d been a parent in another one. It would explain the sense of duty and protection that washed over her upon meeting a young person in which she saw herself.

“Piero Ruiz,” she repeated back to him— committing his name and face to memory. “What brings you to Verona, Piero?” she inquired suddenly in Spanish. It didn’t take a linguist (though she’d indeed been one) to recognize the Spanish that lined his name and tongue, and Omi took any opportunity she could to speak anything other than Italian. “And how’s the drink?”

[ovomi]

ariel.

Alva was still young, and full of verve. They ritualistically stayed up into the wee hours, if not on social media, then bar-hopping or skating at Sognare. They had all the energy necessary to work at a place like The Dark Lady, if not the sensibilities. “I’d love nothing more than a nightcap.” 

Unconsciously, Alva closed the distance between them, walking shoulder to shoulder with Omi as she led the way to a place of her choosing. It wasn’t something they were aware of, simply a part of their love language– physical closeness to display affection. 

Her admission earned a rare smile out of Alva. 

“Oh?” 

Normally, they didn’t enjoy gossip. However, outside of the Lady, gossip felt much more harmless. Once outside, Alva shed the idea that secrets were for sale, and endeavored to keep them; or give their friends the privacy they sought. If Omi didn’t wish to disclose who she was mentioning, and made a clever dodge, Alva wouldn’t bring it up again. 

That was one of the perks of having them by your side. Although Alva wasn’t the sort to solve problems with their fists, or jump head-first into trouble, in all other areas they were quite dependable. Alva was the kind of friend one could call at three in the morning and ask to come over. They would cook for their friends, invite them over, and take care of them. 

“Are the dollar signs no longer soothing the abrasion of their presence?” 

It was common knowledge that more than a few clients were grating to be around, but they often paid well for the displeasure. Sometimes it was a war between wanting to maximize one’s profits and pulling a Marie Kondo on one’s client list. 

Omi knew precisely what oh meant with that particular inflection— it was a signal to begin the transfer of information. “Honey, there aren’t enough dollar signs in the world make up for how much I don’t want to see her. Beautiful, lovely woman in her early 50s, but the real issue is that I’m convinced she may attempt to leave her wife for me.” They tell them this with a halfhearted sigh and a roll of the eyes, and whether or not Alva experienced that up until that present moment, they would in the caress of The Dark Lady. They descended up the elevator to the top floor, where Alva learned of Signora M and her notably younger wife, both of who they’d seen in and outside of The Dark Lady, but more frequently Signora M— and she made sure of that. Couldn’t get too chummy with the wife. 

As they entered the penthouse, Omi ushered them to the bar with an intricate set of motions sent in their direction, before placing two glasses of rum punch between them and Alva. “I’ve been working on perfecting this recipe for a while, so do tell me what you think.” 

They suddenly whisk up their glass, holding it out in a festive toast to Alva. “We can’t forget to toast to our nightcap now— can we?” Omi asks them with a perked brow. “To one of many future nightcaps.”

—exeunt olivia.

[ovomi]

Sonoya Mizuno | ph. Kate Friend

[ovomi]

hero.

Heloise studies the establishment as her tired eyes glimmer with slight curiosity. Well-tailored suits, million-dollar smiles, diamonds and pearls that wink and glitter in the low light. The Dark Lady is drizzled in sin and the gentle whispers that occupy her mind encourage her to dive in, but she only seats herself upon the velvet sofa and settles under dim lighting. Uncertainty hangs loosely in the air, and in truth, Heloise doesn’t know why she’s here. Perhaps she prefers this, thundering voices and unruly crowds, as opposed to pervasive silence and the heaviness of a thousand words unspoken.  She carries enough grief in her restless heart to last a lifetime. Heloise’s eyes mist over and she wonders if it would be better to bury it, to pack it away neatly in a little wooden box, and turn a blind eye.

As the night descends, Heloise suppresses a yawn and blinks the sleep from her eyes. She has half a mind to leave, but before she’s able to depart, Renzo whisks her away for idle chatter. She doesn’t wish to be ill-mannered, so she rests her chin in the palm of her hand and sets aside her discontent, offering him a faint smile to cloud mild irritation. She’s eager to loll into a deep slumber where she sits under wisps of white clouds as the hummingbirds beat their wings against the tender breeze, where she rests amongst a garden of fragrant jasmine petals and sharp blades of green grass, where she dreams a little dream of brown eyes and a splatter of freckles that map the stars.

Her head begins to swim as her eyes flutter to a close, and she struggles to comprehend a single word that leaves Renzo’s mouth. She shouldn’t have come, and the recollection of feathered pillows and a plush duvet only pushes her towards the exit sign. Before she musters up enough courage to excuse herself, a familiar face does all the work for her. Do you mind if I steal you away from Renzo for a drink? Heloise settles for a stiff nod and smiles sweetly. Nice girls don’t make a fuss.

She settles into a bar stool and gifts Omi with the utmost attention. She takes note of the shade of ruby that stains their lips red, the way their words roll off the tip of their tongue, decadently dark with a hint of sweetness, leaving much to be desired, and how they glow like they’ve swallowed the moon whole. She smiles, and for the first time since nightfall, it’s genuine. The bartender gifts the two of them with cocktails and explains before she has the chance to inquire. Courtesy of the older the couple that’s sitting across the bar. Omi turns to acknowledge their admirers, and Heloise follows suit.

If not for the sorrows of her heart, she’s sure a delicate shade of pink would kiss the apples of her cheeks. “I know who you are.” Heloise tilts her head as her hands settle in her lap, interest piqued. “Everyone does. You’ve never paid me any mind before.” It isn’t an accusation. Just a fact. “I suppose I can’t blame you. You’re beautiful, and I’m sure you have a lot of people to please.” It’s hardly a whisper, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of them. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a bad day, Omi. I apologize for my insolence.”

What is that you want? Think big.

Heloise wrinkles the button of her nose as she ponders Omi’s question, though it doesn’t take much thought. Her tongue loosens as her deepest desires bubble forth. “I want someone to love. I want to return home after a long day and know that someone’s waiting for me on the other side of the door.” She sighs wistfully, her heart swelling three times its size. “I want heaps of money, so much that I don’t know what to do with. I want an engagement ring the size of a rock.” Heloise chimes, her voice sweeter than apple pie. She gifts Omi one last smile. “I want to be wanted. I want to be happy. I want to belong.” 

“This may be crass, but until recently, I was under the impression that you were one of Renzo’s beautiful playthings.” Perhaps the compliment would be enough to water down the potential insult. To be Renzo’s plaything, though a dreadful idea to Omi, could potentially be delightful to another person. “I’m never one to impede on Renzo’s plaything. And I like to think that he would do the same for me.” She offers Heloise a smile fueled by a thousand suns. “But don’t mistake direct acknowledgment for total disregard. I always noticed you. It would be impossible not to.” Omi does not say this with the intent of flattery. “Purely out of observation. It’s something you should always keep in mind.” 

They study her wavering, weary, almost childlike expression, recalling a dreamier, freer, point in their life. Heloise’s apology draws Omi out of their memory, and they choose their words carefully.

“Who taught you to be so apologetic, my dear?” tumbles curiously from Omi’s tongue. Why was it that young women are instructed to be so apologetic for merely existing? “You haven’t a thing to be sorry that. Always keep that in mind.” She smirks knowingly. “Unless being sorry happens to get you what you want.” 

As Omi lends an ear to Heloise’s musings— her many hopes, dreams, and desires— a sense of pity washes over them. They want nothing more than to curse the person responsible for instilling such smallness in Heloise’s life. Nevermind that though, as Omi would not waste valuable time occupying themself with thoughts of ill will. Nurturing Heloise into recognizing her fullest potential would be a better way of occupying their time. “Why aspire for one ring, when you could have so many rings that you’ve lost track of all the proposals you received?”

They draw themself closer to Heloise, their expression reflecting a sense of belief so poignant that it would move a thousand nations. “I can’t promise you a single heart, but I hold the power of a thousand. Know that at any given moment that there are dozens of men and women that would leave their partners in pursuit of me.” Omi does not acknowledge the person responsible for the fresh round of drinks for Heloise and them— still deeply entrenched in their conversation. “And know that men rarely leave their wives. Killing for you is one thing, but if they truly leave their wife for you? Then that’s when you know you’re truly in control.”

Omi smiled the smile of someone who knew they were equipped with the tools to make another person’s dreams come true. There was vigor in that smile, that of a god aware that it was them who pulled all the strings. And all it would take is Heloise becoming aware of her fullest potential, with the help of her guidance and teachings. Just as Mona had done for her once. It was a legacy that she intended on continuing— one that would continue to pass on through the generations. This brilliance could not live and die with Yamamoto Omi.

“Stick with me, Heloise, and you will forget want for another thing. With your potential, money will become just another object. I can give you a place to belong, but it will be your responsibility to find happiness and belonging with the tools I will give you. But above all else, I want you to want more for yourself. I hope one day I can help you realize what you’re truly capable of.”

She fixes her hand for a toast with the fresh drinks she’s been brought. “To beautiful, clever mysteries, and  the prosperity that they will bring.”

[ovomi]

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart;

Jorge Luis Borges, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “In a Deserted Streetcorner,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[ovomi]

edgar.

A life with lack of expectations rings so utterly foreign to Everett’s ears, and yet there’s something about the idea of it that’s subtly irresistible. A life away from the Capulets, from Craven & Ricci, from the two diverging roles he struggles to balance in the day to day. Expectations from his father, the media, the church, his shareholders and the triumvirate pull Everett in a million different directions every moment he’s alive, and though he’s long since stopped being a product of circumstance and instead a player in this game, carving his own mark in the space around him, the strain from such a balancing act is impossible to ignore. 

He thinks about a life in which he is only Everett, without titles or consequence, and tries not to choke on the bittersweet taste.

“How very bohemian of you,” Everett remarks teasingly, gaze slipping back to Omi. She, on the other hand, seems to find no issue in a free-feeling, free-wheeling existence, untethered and living life to the fullest. It must be the promise of liberty that pulls him to her, all open skies and open horizons, like laughter carried on a brisk wind. Vivacious and ever-shifting, passion radiating from every dip of her voice. His fingers dig into soft sand, the night breeze gently ruffling his shirt collar. 

Everett cants his head to the side, studying the fluid lines of her features, and suddenly, the magnetic frisson crackling in the air between them seizes him in its grip. It’s only recently that he’s finally made his peace with the engagement that shattered into fragments six years ago; a year since his heartache has finally curdled into nothing but cold bitterness towards a woman who so thoroughly misused him. Since then, he hasn’t ventured out into the realm of romance again, but tonight —

Omi’s dark, glittering eyes ply him with subtle invitation to break the boundaries he’s set in place for himself, and Everett wonders, as he catches the scent of her perfume on the sea breeze, if it really would be such a sin to chase the taste of tequila on her soft lips. Warmth blooms under the surface of his skin, the past few hours of conversation slipping through his veins like liquor as his eyes drop to Omi’s mouth, and Everett thinks… 

He thinks, inexplicably, of Vivianne. Of a fresh spring afternoon six years ago, walking together, hand in hand through the gardens of Villa Santarossa; of her blue eyes, and the tenderness that swelled like a symphony in his chest when he’d pressed a kiss to the glittering sapphire on her ring finger before pressing another like a promise to her lips. Then, he thinks of the iron sliver of her cruel mouth as she’d needled him during Ospedale Borgo Roma’s charity benefit three weeks ago — and the entire memory shatters to pieces, blown away by Valencia’s summer wind.

He realizes, belatedly, he’s frozen. Omi fixes him with a hesitant expression, still close enough to count her thick fan of lashes. Then the moment melts away, melts into the forgiving smile she offers him as she makes a remark about work obligations. Perhaps he’s not ready to venture back into love and war, yet. Perhaps in a year, I will be, he tells himself, not realizing that one will stretch to two, to three… until he’ll stand at the end of a decade without ever truly putting his heart at risk.

“There’s no one,” he says immediately, watching the waves pull closer and recede. He can tell she doesn’t believe him, and if only because he’s already opened up to her tonight, he considers giving her a different answer. Everett rakes a hand through his hair, something about the anonymity and the night air making him frank. Or perhaps, it’s the liquor. “…there was someone. But she isn’t waiting for me.” He can’t help the bitter edge that creeps into his quiet voice, but admitting it would give his ex-fiancée more power than she deserves.

He traces a line in the sand, then glances at Omi, a light smile on his lips as he shakes his head. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “She doesn’t mean much to me anymore.” A lie. “We’re practically strangers now.”

Everett's truth was delivered in the form of several gloomy codes, all of which became more decipherable as they were paired with the previous statement. She'd proven her intuition to be correct, but at what cost? Though they'd been fortunate enough to escape— even if only for a few hours— reality had begun to creep up on the shore in all directions. The interim world that they'd carefully constructed for themselves had an existence contingent upon the real world never making an appearance. As their universe and niceties began to crumble, Omi resisted the distress that urged her to grasp uselessly at their falsehoods. It ran its course.

If only it could've remained intact for a few moments longer. 

Yet the truth was somehow freeing, even if it had not been Omi's truth to feel liberated by. It was nice not having to pretend, and even if a vacation fantasy was far preferable to their dull reality, it was nice not having to actively participate in the act of pretending. Reality would always be reality— regardless of the effort put into maintaining it. 

“There are a thousand universes in which the two of you end up together,” Omi begins dreamily, as her lips relay the tale of some faraway place. “And you're still trying to figure out how you managed to find yourself in the one reality in which you aren't.” She outlines a lopsided heart in the sand absentmindedly. She was speaking to a different form of loss, but heartbreak was heartbreak, wasn’t it? “If it makes you feel any better, then know I’m not an otherworldly wandering goddess. Well— I am technically, but I’m also just someone who thinks that if I visit enough places, it’ll make me forget the fact that I’m surviving off of my dead parents’ fortune.” Omi delivers the last statement comically— almost morbidly so. It was simply her own way of relating to companion her own understanding of loss, through her own scattered and poorly managed understanding of grief. 

“I hope that I ever see you again, that you’ll have forgiven yourself,” she interjected after a several moments of silence. “And I hope you’ll be given the opportunity to choose happiness.” Not everyone was given the opportunity to do so, after all. 

[ovomi]

Kate Jacobs; Comfort Food

[ovomi]

cleopatra.

She leans into the gentle kisses against her cheeks, a soft hum rumbling in her chest as Omi showers her with warm greetings and kind words. She slips into the woman’s home, a metaphorical weight lifting from her shoulders. Here, in Omi’s home, she needn’t be on her highest guard; here, in Omi’s home, she could be Calina first and Cleopatra; here, in Omi’s home, she was a friend before she was a Montague. Calina relishes the small moments like these, a honey-sweet response slipping from her lips without need for much thought: “You make it so difficult to leave, дорогой цветок. I wish I could whisk you away from Verona so you could travel with me every time I’ve got to work.” Especially this time, since she’d just returned from Japan on a mission to woo the Yakuza.

Calina settles near Omi, her knee pressing against the other’s thigh as she scoots closer. “You’re rather skilled at what you do,” the woman says. “I’ve been here less than five minutes and I’m ready to tell you absolutely everything,” she teases, expression lighting up at the offer of conversation and a drink. “I’m well, cara mia. Much better now that I’m here. How are you?” Her trip had been successful, further cementing her place in the Montagues’ favor and she got a chance to go home and visit the graves of her mother and Faron, though she’ll keep these details tucked against her chest. When Omi asks, she’ll explain the success as though she didn’t need it more than the Montagues; she’ll say she visited old friends and places that stick out from growing up. 

There are some things she’s not quite yet ready to share so easily–not without a drink, at least.

“You know me so well. What are we drinking?”

“Play your cards right, and your wish may come true,” Omi assures Calina with a whimsical wink. “You could take care of business and find me waiting for you back in the hotel. I could even try my hand at collecting intel overseas.” The mere idea of Calina was enough to lull her eyes shut, a reverie of the both of them on a beautiful island— Turks and Caicos or Saint Lucia perhaps— Calina conducting business throughout the day, Omi maybe gathering secrets when time permitted between periods of relaxation, both of them as far away from Verona as possible…

But even when they were both so far removed from the city— Verona’s grasp would not slacken. She was tied to The Dark Lady, just as Calina was bound to the Montague’s to an even extremer extent. Even the willingness to leave everything behind, even if it be temporarily, alarmed her— why was her mind so eager to indulge in Calina centered fantasies? There was no changing her status as a mafioso. The Yakuza had cost her a father and mother, where would association with the Capulets and Montagues take her?

And so she quieted her imagination, focusing on the woman whose very aura illuminated her dimly lit apartment. How silly of her to fantasize about the very person occupying her presence. It was wasteful. “You don’t get to where we are being mediocre. Spare me no details. I could listen to you talk until time no longer had a meaning.” With two glasses on the table in front of them, Omi proceeds to open a fresh bottle. “My favorite whiskey, which happens to be one of the finest Japanese whiskeys I’ve ever come across. I convinced one of the bartenders at Lady to sell me a bottle.” She pours a generous amount into each glass. “It’s best chilled without ice, but if you wanted ice I can get you some.” Flirtation radiates from her expression. “I can’t see myself sharing my best whiskey with anyone else. Perhaps there’s something special about you, belle.”

[ovomi]

The High Priestess, The Lovers, The Tower

II. The High Priestess — How does your muse feel about religion?

Religion had been of no use or concern to Omi, but she understood why it may have been useful for others. With a non-practicing Catholic mamá and an atheist otou-chan religion had never been something she encountered in much in her life. Her mamá sought solace in religion after the murder of her otou-chan,  but to no avail. One of Omi’s last attempts at prayer was on their mamá’s behalf— 18, and unsure of how to properly deal with the affliction of their mamá’s mind, sought out religion as a last resort, and to no avail. She would commit suicide only a few weeks later. 

Her second to the last attempt at prayer was in the months that followed her mamá’s death— though they didn’t take on the form of a typical prayer, more of demands littered with blasphemy. If this said creator would not listen to their pleading, then maybe they would consider their taunting. How cowardly could this god or said gods have been? How could they reject the demands of someone asking for their own life to be taken, one who expressed little to no value or respect toward them? Surely she had gone about it all wrong. Surely to put Omi out of their misery would be much more than they deserved for the venomous cruelties that spewed from their poisoned tongue. Omi decided that if there was a god, then they must be actively working against them. They did not buy into the belief that everything happened for a reason, and that this would serve some greater purpose in their life— that it was necessary to give life to their suffering in order to accept it. 

What she could believe was that she was dealt some shitty cards and that only she could breathe meaning and purpose into the life she led, with the tools that she possessed. She had access to her parents’ small fortune if nothing else. Omi knew that a god could not get her where she wanted to be. She could not revive her parents, nor could she pray her way into a life of security, luxury, and meaning. What she could admittedly do was venture her way across the world, searching for some grander purpose, indulging in liquor and lovers, living a life ruled by hedonism, merely a collection of makeshift moments— and that would be enough for the time being. Until she would stumble upon Mona, at least.

VI. The Lovers — What’s your muses feelings about love?

It exists— that much Omi is aware of. There was love in the way her otou-chan would walk her around the corner to school every day, in the way her mamá made her lunch when she was able to get up, and in the way, Chiko would unexpectedly show up at her door with flowers he’d collected for her that day. They loved her dearly, and in return she’d allowed them each a piece of her heart. Romantic love she was far less familiar with— there simply never was a real opportunity for to pursue such fancies, not when she was never in a country for more than a few months, not when she spent the majority of her time occupied with The Dark Lady. Not when she was surrounded by Mafiosos she’d rather not be intertwined up with. Though Omi wouldn’t shy away from it, she doesn’t actively pursue it either. She would never risk the luxury and security she’s built for herself for a dalliance of the heart. 

XVI. The Tower — What does your muse consider to be the worst thing that ever happened to them?

The murder of their otou-chan. Maybe that was wrong, considering their mamá’s death followed shortly after. Maybe it was wrong that deep down, Omi knew that even if their mamá’s death had been unrelated— to be without their otou-chanwas a far more unbearable thought than being without their otou-chan. They would’ve been okay, eventually. Was it because they’d grown accustomed to the thought that one day they may have been without their mamá? Their earliest memories of their mamá were of faintness and ailments. Maybe it cause their father loved them in the way they desired to be loved— loudly, unabashadly, and with every part of his being. To have that sort of presence in one’s life, and to one day just not, restructured their world eniterly. To lose someone prematurely, people simply do not expect to lose their parents at the age of 18, led Omi to feel cheated. They deserved more time. Their parents deserved to see 40. They were 6 years shy of being their otou-chan’s age when he died, and still their life felt entirely unfufilled. There was still half a life for them to lead. Maybe it was better that way— to get the worst possible thing to ever happen to their out of the way at such a young age. It made anything else terrible that happened to Omi significantly less terrible. Omi was comfortable in their numbness. 

[ovomi]

katherine.

It is neither the slinky black dress nor the heels that make her uncomfortable. And while the dark red her mouth has been stained is only slightly jarring, the severe lack of jewelry on her fingers and instead multiple strands of gold that lay along her neck and show off the low neckline of her dress is even more so. However, The Dark Lady is the last place where anyone would expect to find Katarina Du Pont, and that is precisely why she is here tonight dressed as she is: watching the main suspect of a case she’s been assigned. It’s tedious work, but as this is as close to real ‘field work’ as she’s allowed, she’ll take what she can get; pad of her middle finger slowly tracing around the rim of the low ball glass of what she assumed used to be a perfectly good boulevardier (before the ice melted) as she scans the room.

Omi seems to have spectacular timing. Shunin’s just begun a new game of poker and with a turn of her head a smile curves at her lips, lazy and feline with blue eyes glinting with untempered amusement. “If I knew to look for you…” She trails off with a shrug, giving the woman the briefest of once-overs that lingers at her pretty mouth before returning to meet her gaze. “I would have made sure to find you.” And when the bartender prompts her for her order, Katarina keeps her eyes on the woman before her instead of turning away. “A Milano-Torino, please.” Her request slips from her lips smooth as the silk she wears, though of course: she’s not flirting, but she’s intrigued— thus her introduction is as inviting as a caress. “I’m Katarina.” And Shunin isn’t likely to move from his seat another hour, so she nods her head towards one of the booths along the side. She can still see him from there. “Sit with me?”

“Now you know exactly who to look for,” Omi asserts with temptation in their grin. “This won’t be the last time I’m seeing you, will it?” Shameless eyes drift across her lips before returning reluctantly to her eyes. Omi was unabashed in their affections, never one to waste a single moment they were confronted with. If their true emotions were discernable from the opulent falsities of their heart, Omi hadn’t a clue, as they garnered the same result no matter what was presented. “You look as if you were intent on cozying up with the shadows, but settled for a charming stranger.” She requested her usual order of Hibiki 21, chilled, with no ice, difficult bottle to come by that Caesar kept stocked up for her. “Even with disgusing yourself as much as possible, you’re still a rather difficult person to miss.” 

“Katarina,” Omi coos with a flourish, eyes never leaving her companion’s lips as she solidified a face and name to her memory. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You’ve rescued me from an uneventful night, and I’m eternally grateful.” Half turned away from the bar, and half facing Katarina, Omi’s lips curl into an exuberant smile. “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind being rescued if I knew you were the knight responsible.”

[ovomi]

“The hole in my heart is so big, room enough for the sky to pass through holding Jupiter’s hand. I can fill it with a mountain. I can fill it with a name.”

— Aracelis Girmay, from “The Piano”

[ovomi]

perdita.

He tends to show up when he desires to be found. It was a kind way to give name to what Felipe was: selfish. The world spun on its axis to meet him wherever he was. No matter the name he gave himself, the sun would forever recognize him; this was what it meant to be beloved. It was Felipe’s gift, to be adored without working for it.

And it had enchanted her. Like many others, Paola had given to Felipe what he never had to ask for. She was still recovering from it. She had given of herself because she did not covet who or what she was. Hungrily, Felipe had taken it. Irreversibly, Felipe had run away with it. In the hollows of her that still belonged to a false name, dust collected. Bitterness swelled. Paola could let the darkness become a veil over it, but still her flesh would betray her. Gabriele on one hip, for love that betrayed. Valentina on the other, for the ways Paola tried to redeem it.

The wound too fresh, the emotion too raw, Paola lacked the patience to conceal her heart with layers upon layers of pleasantries. She fixed her gaze upon Omi and confessed without self-pity, “You are wiser than I am.” She, who did not know better than to look for Felipe. “You must know him well.” This woman knew Felipe as a man and not a phantom. It stung as Paola understood, clearly and without delusion, that Omi had become to Felipe what Paola had been to Gabriele. A protector. A confidante.

So be it. Grief is a circle. At its center, love; beyond its boundary, loss. She had stepped out from its orbit, entered the space in which all facets of life were colored by what it no longer was. Verona was where Felipe had risen anew in fire and flames. Paola was found in the ashes that fell in the aftermath of his wake. She would not cower before the truth; she would not be denied it again, either.

“I would much rather understanding how you know Felipe.” Paola traded in one poison for another; the story of a man dead and risen, over the exhilarating high of ambrosia. It seemed a fair exchange. “I realize it’s a bold request, and I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable. But if you know him — and it seems that you do — you know that he has his secrets. I’m one of them. And so,” Paola offered a sympathetic smile, “are you.”

“Not wise, but I’m getting there,” Omi corrects Paola with a lingering smile. “Just crafty.” They want to tell Paola not to sell herself short— they want to offer her a string of reassurances, but that wasn’t what Paola sought out from them— what she truly sought out began to crystallize into something more concrete. “I do.” More than I care to know. The more Felipe shared, the deeper their investment became. He knew every substantial thing that happened to them, and even some of the more insignificant occurrences of their life. 

Even if it was Omi who orchestrated Felipe’s protection, it was Omi who was spun into the golden web of Felipe’s life. That was purely a lingering effect of his continued presence. As if he decided when and which ways the planets would orbit. 

There it was. The confirmation of Paola’s quest for answers. Though she could not give her everything she was searching for, she could at least offer her some potentially sufficient responses. This did not change Omi’s desire for a drink, and she captured Caesar’s attention with a knowing, affectionate smile, nodding knowingly before returning with her usual order of whiskey. Hopefully, this would suffice in aiding her in her explanation of how she too became one of Felipe’s beautiful secrets. 

“I met Felipe when I after I was dancing one night,” Omi began, glossed over eyes fixated on the bottle directly across from there as she sought out a familiar moment in their memory. “I’m used to customers pouring their hearts out to me. That’s what really keeps the doors open here, after all, but never had a customer approached me and ask about my story. Not in the way that Felipe asked, at least.” There was a comfortable pause as Omi twirled her glass with a small, nostalgic smile. “He kept coming back, eventually we met up outside of here, and I grew rather fond of him. In fact, I was alarmed by how effortlessly and rapidly I’d allowed him into my life. It’s pretty easy to keep people at a distance in my line of work. But somehow, that wasn’t an option with Felipe.” 

She shuddered when recalling the moment she’d become more invested than she would’ve liked, but accepting that there wouldn’t be any turning back. “Then he showed up on my doorstep one day with a bullet lodged in his side. Blood all over my door and Anthropologie mat.” Even while being nearly fatally wounded, he’d still remained as charming and lively as ever. “In all seriousness, he got lucky. I knew beforehand how to treat gunshot wounds. He wound up being okay. But that’s when I realized…” she trails off naturally, her voice reducing in volume. “I always tell Felipe that he’s in a perpetual state of damn near dead. That meant that I also was by association. It was then I understood my role as one of his secrets, and that continuing a friendship with him would come with a cost. But I still chose him. He made it difficult not to. It was ironic that the person I’d become closest to in over ten years would be the most dangerous possible companions I could’ve come into contact with. But still unsurprising somehow. I can’t say I regret it either. I care about him too much to do so.” She nursed her drinks for a few moments longer, before taking a sip, eyes slipping to gauge out a reaction from Paola. “But I believe that’s the gist of it. Was there anything else you were wondering?”

[ovomi]

“I think … it’d hurt too much to give you names.”

— Katie Ford, If You Have To Go: Poems; “The Addresses”

[ovomi]

In THE DARK LADY, during the night of 2019 JUNE 13TH at 11:27 P.M., OLIVIA whisks away HERO for an inquiring chat. // @heloisem​

There'd been a lull in the steady flow of occupants, the dizzying atmosphere beginning to settle around them— leaving an opportunity wide open for whatever their heart desired, and what was desired was the presence of Heloise Maksimovich. Omi had long grown accustomed to Heloise becoming Renzo's shadow, but the more recent discovery of her fixation with Tomas Sabello, which had been easy information to come by considering she'd uttered his name several times, seven or eight times—if Omi had been counting correctly— just in the time that Omi had been nearby. That must have meant her fascination with Renzo dwindled, meaning she would be an easy person to whisk away, and not only would Omi be able to make sure her conversation abilities remained sharp, but she'd be scoping out her potential, which could be of use for her if Calina's intel had been correct. 

Silver Tom Ford heels gripped the floor with perfected rhythm and timing, Omi sporting one of her “between dances outfits,” a green deeply cut flowing jumpsuit, reminiscent of the one seen on Donyale Luna in the 60s, with her black hair slicked back in a similar fashion. The most noticeable addition had been the silver chain visible from behind on her lower hips. She had no particular way of knowing if someone's eyes lingered on her, and so she acted as if they always were, as this was typically the case. As Renzo and Heloise grew closer in her line of vision, Omi's lips teased into a coquettish smirk. 

“Miss Maksimovich,” Omi professed dreamily, standing directly in front of the pair of them. “Do you mind if I steal you away from Renzo for a drink? I feel as if it's about time we got to know each other better.” She glides smoothly into the seat next to Renzo, close enough to nearly spill onto his lap, an arm coiling around his shoulder as her lips hovered only centimeters away from his ear. “I just need you to know how easy it is to take from you is all,” she whispers playfully. “So you remember who the head sparrow in charge is.” She pulls away to have a single good look at him, before playfully patting his cheek and standing up yet again. 

Omi looks over their shoulder in confirmation that the young woman was following her, not requiring any verbal confirmation as they made themselves comfortable in Omi's frequented pocket at the bar. Caesar, the bartender, greeted the two of them moments later with a pair of tequila sunrises before they even had the opportunity to order. “Courtesy of the older the couple that's sitting across the bar, for what they say are the most beautiful creatures to inhabit The Dark Lady.”

She turns invitingly to find the couple in question, before smiling and waving appreciatively, before urging her young companion to do the same. “Surely, if we are the most beautiful people that they've laid eyes on in here, then we're quite deserving of the most expensive bottle you have, don't you think Caesar?” Omi relays to him, in order for him to inform the couple. “It's only fair that they know grand gestures are what attract our attention.” He walks away with a knowing smile, and Omi turns her attentions to Heloise with a grand smile. 

“Omi. Yamamoto Omi. To my knowledge, we have several friends in common. Calina, Tomas, and even Renzo on a good day.” She takes a polite sip of the sunrise, not usually one for fruity liquors, but not wanting to offend potential future customers of hers. “Tell me, Heloise, what is that you want? Think big.”

[ovomi]

I’m starving for this moment to be mine,

Peter Cooley, from “Poem for Early Morning, Not an Aubade,” Bennington Review (2017)