“You didn’t flinch until after,” she says with a grin. “That’s how we know.”
I smile despite myself as the warm espresso settles in my chest, and for a brief moment I don’t feel like a person who fled across the world with a half-formed plan.
“It’s actually my very first espresso,” I huff out a laugh, “like ever.”
She raises both her brows at me as she lowers her sunglasses, revealing her hazel green eyes. “Well, prepare for Italy to turn you into a coffee addict.” She shoots me a knowing wink.
“Hahaha, who knows! I hear anything is possible here.”
She stares at me, studying my face more closely and my mind races as I try to form a good enough excuse to deny a picture in case she recognizes me. One photo of me leaked on the internet and my cover will be blown. The world will know where I ran off too, which means Zale and Gabriel will, too. And honestly, I’m not ready to face either of them yet.
“What brings you to Italy?” she asks, curious eyes finding mine.
I smile and look away, trying to hide the pain, before shrugging softly. “I’m not really sure. I guess I’m hoping to discover something about myself out here that I don’t already know.”
“Ah… ti sei un po’ persa,”?* she says, turning her body to face me now. “Succede. A volte ci si perde, prima di ritrovarsi.”?*
I frown, trying to recall if Duolingo taught me any one of those words.
Nope.
“I’m not sure what you just said,” I admit with an embarrassed smile. “I probably should have learned Italian before coming here, huh?”
“That would have helped you feel a little less lost.” She nods then grins at me. “How long are you staying in Italy?”
“Uhm, I don’t really know. I don’t have a return date in mind.”
“Perfetto!” She digs into her purse and pulls out a brochure for an Art Academy, sliding it over to me. “You must join my art program then.”
I pick it up, staring at the cover and noticing it’s in English.
Thank God.
“An art program…in Florence?”
“Si. You are giving me wandering artist feelings, and I’m sure you’ll learn Italian while taking this program too.”
“Wandering artist feelings? What does that even mean?” I mutter to myself as I flip through, noting that this is a one year program.
“Oh come on. What better way to find yourself than creating art in the land of la dolce vita?”
“I don’t know…I haven’t painted people since my compulsory high school art class.”
She clicks her tongue. “Art is more than justdrawingpeople.” She reaches over and flips the brochure, pointing to an address in the city centre. “Come here tomorrow at noon and I’ll show you.”
And with that, she tosses a couple Euros on the counter, and walks away winking one last time.
The evening airsmells amazing as I follow my nose down the narrow side street that leads to the tiny family restaurant I’ve been visiting since coming to Italy, tucked between two buildings. There’s a faded chalkboard that leans against the wall, listing specials in a messy, looping script I mostly can’t read. But I don’t need to read it because there’s only one thing that’s been on my mind today.
Gnocchi.
The hostess, a woman with grey-streaked hair, waves me up to the rooftop patio like we’re old friends. I climb the narrow stairs until I reach the small but crowded patio. Twinkle lightsare strung overhead, casting halos around the heads of the people up here. One of the reasons I keep coming back is because of how slowly everyone eats and talks here, like they’re in no hurry to be anywhere else.
It’s refreshing.
I slide into my usual corner table with a view of the city’s rooftops, allowing myself to finally exhale. A waiter appears before I can even open a menu and he says something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian very well,” I start, but based on his expression, he doesn’t understand English very well, either.
