“Describe your dress for me,” I ask, trying to distract myself. My tone is rougher, sounding almost like a plea.
She laughs, and begins to describe it. But truthfully, the only detail I catch is the color: a muted shade of blue-gray.
A knock sounds on her end of the line, followed by her voice calling out. “Just a second,” she says, her words muffled now.
Then another voice. Younger, feminine. Her daughter.
I smile without realizing it... until the words that follow cut through the line.
“Dad called. He said he’s already on his way and will meet us at the venue.”
My jaw tightens. It takes me a moment to realize Cecilia is calling my name. I draw in a deep breath before I answer.
“Sì,” I force out.
“I was saying I need to finish getting ready or I’ll be late,” Cecilia says quickly.
“Of course,” I reply. “I don’t want to keep you. I hope you all have an amazing day.”
“Thank you, Alexander.”
She’s about to hang up when the words slip out.
“Send me a photo when you’re ready... I’d like to see you in the dress you described.” I hesitate, forcing my voice to stay composed. “Only if you want to.”
A few seconds go by. Then, barely above a whisper: “Okay.”
We say goodbye again, and I can’t tell if her “okay” meant “Okay, I’ll send you the photo,” or “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
I get my answer ten minutes later. Just a photo, one that speaks louder than a thousand words ever could.
She’s standing in front of an armchair, probably in her living room, wearing the blue-gray dress she described. The fabric hugs her body with effortless elegance before falling just below her knees, a discreet slit tracing the start of her right leg.
The top is intricate lace, fitted high along her neck, the short sleeves framing her shoulders in a way that feels incredibly graceful. Her hair is pulled back in an elegant updo, exposing the gentle line of her neck and her delicate features, the light makeup only drawing attention to what’s already strikingly beautiful.
For a moment, I just stare at the photo. But it isn’t the dress. It isn’t the makeup. It’s her.
She’s stunning.
Everything about her—the way she stands, the calm in her eyes, the shy curve of her mouth—has a life of its own. She has something I’ve never seen in anyone else. Something I always struggle to describe but feel deep in my bones.
Me:You’re stunning. You’re going to be the most beautiful woman there.
She replies two minutes later.
Cecilia:I guess what they say about Italians is true. You’re all impossibly charming.
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips.
“One day, Cecilia,” I murmur, staring at her message, “one day you’ll realize this half-Italian, half-French fool hasn’t looked at anyone the same since I first saw you.”
I type a quick reply, keeping my tone casual.
Me:Just saying what I see. You’re stunning no matter what you wear. Enjoy the day.
She sends back a simple ‘thank-you’, and I place my phone face-down on the desk.
The reports on export numbers wait in front of me, lines and figures blurring together. I try—per Dio[XXVII], I try—to focus, to keep my thoughts anywhere else. But the image of her in that dress lingers.
