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This, again.

Those numbers, etched on my Soul by her rapier wit when she imprinted me with her Love by lips most beguiling, and conversations of Things Important and Tantamount, all the while suborned by her background and whispers in willing ear, whispers of a nature both scandalous and salacious, and now the promise of our Love Rejoined (at the hip, mehopes!)!

And, turning the page, a return to that ‘just summer’ warm day, the two of us outside on a stone patio of the adjoining villa on a pleasant rise of a ridge providing a view most bucolic as you stand in front of an old wooden table where, with mortar and pestle, you grind the fresh-picked sun-kissed basil and the virgin olive oil and walnuts to serve, eventually, over fresh-made semolina pasta, the noodles limp not from a lack of desire, but rather anticipation of The Unknown, and your sundress is faded from the blazing summer sun, your arms taunt, your hands practiced as you work the pestle with precious care, your body tanned from that same sun (Icarus’s Downfall!) whilst a glass of cold sauvignon blanc from a nondescript vineyard, a vintage both respectable and cheap, sits next to you on that old wooden table, the hard surface of which has know both dinning and Passion, and you look to me, your face a puzzle, and say, “What are you looking at?”