Every Tuesday afternoon, she watched him.
Nestled in the familiar corner of Juliacci's cafe,
ordering the usual tiramisu and water.
Always incognito, with a huge black hat.
The hat not big enough to hide her heart.
To the near right, a boy eager to make extra lira pounds on his drums.
The door to the shop swings open.
Heart skipping a beat, hand shaking as she delicately eats a piece of cake.
The moment has come.
She wonders what he has bought today.
Green tea? Chopsticks? Incense?
Maybe satin sheets.
She shivers.
A mere gondola hand, but the body of a smoldering god.
Rich, black hair, piercing eyes.
She is brave today, and looks up.
He is looking at her.
He nods hello and walks on.
One day she will have him.
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