Let my hair grow long, tutor local kids in English, ride a Vespa into town for bread. I imagine Ed on one of those tiny tractors made for terraced land. Imagine him starting a little vineyard. Or we could make tisanes of lemon balm. I look at him but he is pouring wine.
Sound carries on the hills.
Often we hear parties of invisible neighbors above us. The frogs go silent all at once, as if someone shushed them. Ed brings out the vin santo and a plate of biscotti he made this morning. Now the night is big and quiet. We talk, talk, talk.