When I got up she was in the yard playing softball with the tall one and his older friend who doesn't say much. In the mirror I look flushed or sunburnt. I am, sort of. Here I am, to no one in particular. I wish Bimby hadn't lost the pensione and gone away.
Nothing is permanent in Italy, only the ruins and the tourists and the taxes.
Only the summers she might have added. Eros of one kind or some other plays them on. Some church bells have convinced me that God is part of all of this. It Could be so. When I am sleeping on my own, as I most always am, I am apt to sense some breathing on the pillow next to mine.