A single candle illuminated on my desk, its pungent odor of wax permeating in the air. The flickering light drew my eyes to the picture in the dark room. The two of them leaned their heads against each other and interlocked their fingers, smiling as newlyweds: Bassanio in the middle, Portia on the right. He looked just as beautiful as the first day we had met at the family reunion decades ago. To the left of Bassanio, my forced smile betrayed the emptiness inside me.

        I threw the picture on my bedroom floor, the glazing of the picture cracking between Bassanio and me. I looked into Bassanio’s eyes, remembering the time I had convinced him to give Portia’s ring away instead of keeping his word to her. But would he still choose me now that they were married?

                                           ~ ~ ~

        Bassanio’s walked to me. “Antonio!”

        We hugged and gave kisses on the cheek, and I held on for as long as I could before he pulled away. His elegant crimson robe dragged on the ground, complimenting his cocoa-brown hair. “I wanted to tell thee in person that I must leave for at least a year on mine ships. I know not when I will be back. Dost thou want to come with me?”

        My body shakes when I see him frown and look at the ground. “Portia must stay in Belmont now that she hath inherited all of her father’s belongings.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I know not if I can, Antonio. As her husband…”

        I enclosed his right hand with the two of mine and stared at the cloudy skies of his pupils. “Think of the adventures we would have, Bassanio. The two of us, together again like the old days.”

He doesn’t say anything.

        “Nevertheless, ‘tis thy choice. Upon the next dawn, I must leave with mine ships from the dock. Bye, my good friend.”
                                         ~ ~ ~

        Bassanio approached a male fortune teller on the streets. A velvet headscarf enclosed the fortune teller’s hair into a wide bun on top of the head. “Good morrow. Canst thou help me with a choice?” Bassanio asked.
         Portia half smiled behind her mask, preparing to use an accent like the prince of Morocco by replacing “th” sounds with “t”. “Anything for a loyal man like thee.”

        “I must choose between my best kinsman, who wanteth me to leave with him, or my beautiful wife.”
        “Your wife must be pretty indeed,” Portia said, adjusting her robe that reached the ground. “If thou chooseth the container with a ducat, thou must go with your kinsman, the container with a small casket — your wife, and the container with nothing — you must choose yourself.” The fortuneteller filled three containers from under the booth and placed them in front of Bassanio. “I urge thee, pause for a while to think if thee wanteth to doth this, for thou may make a mistake in a hasty decision.”

        Bassanio looked at the fortune teller’s eyes and smirked. “I hath heard that ere; thee sound just like mine wife. But I always chooseth correct.” He closed his eyes and pointed at the right one.

                                          ~ ~ ~
        The city bell rung six times as a golden disk of light rose from the horizon. Low fog carried the earthy fragrance of rain, rocking my merchant vessels in the calm water nearby, as the light whooshes of wind and shushing of waves help me relax and take a deep breath. He isn’t here.

        I boarded a ship and gave a signal Solanio to undo the mooring. The ships flapped their wings, rumbling in the growing wind, and the fog consumed me as I could no longer see Venice.