A four piece band strikes up in the middle of the Piazza della Repubblica. The passing people couldn't help but stop and takes in the Italian folk tunes. Looking up from my writing I see a stunning vision standing with her back to me. Her red heels may have caught my eye or perhaps it was the large floppy hat she had worn to subdue the intense Tuscan sun. Now however, as the sun was setting the breeze picked up. At times she has to reach up and hold her hat down. I enjoyed drinking in the long elegant lines of her body. Loosing my train of thought, I ignored my writing to take a long sip of wine, waiting (or perhaps hoping) for a sign. A slight tap of her foot was all I needed. Slugging down the rest of my glass, I leave my seat in the cafe.
Without words, I approached her. Grasping both of her hands, I greet her with only a smile. Sliding my left hand down to her waist, we began to dance. She laughs, I smile wider now and our dance continues. As the allegro tempo slowed more to a waltz, I pulled her close and she lay her head on my shoulder. A gust of wind finally succeeds in pulling the hat from her head. Looking up suddenly we catch our first intimate gaze. In that moment we might have forgotten the hat all together if it weren't for the yelling. I turned my head towards it to see a waiter at the cafe waving my journal as he shouts in my direction. She turns in the opposite direction, hoping to spy her missing hat. Our connection breaks, each tending to our own business.
After unsuccessfully trying to explain my actions to the waiter, I finally give up. I shower him with more euros than he deserved so I can turn my attention back to my dance partner. I scan the crowd for those beautiful red heels. They are pointing directly at a pair of black leather dress loafers. The man who's feet are inside is taller than I. The suit he wears is a conservative cut, nicer than any suit I had ever owned. A finely pressed white shirt accented by a deep ocean blue tie rounds out his ensemble. It conveys an aura of seriousness, (hardly the demeanor to complement such a whimsical beauty as the woman in red heels). In his hand he holds her floppy sun hat. She on the other-hand holds his gaze. It appeared she was doing some explaining of her own. Grabbing her hand, he turns and begins walking her from the piazza. With my notebook once again firmly in hand I stood alone. She glanced once over her shoulder. I gave her one last smile but doubt she ever received it.
...another sip and the wine's silky tannins bring me back to the present. I may not have this girl, but I'll always have her memory imprinted on this seductive Italian red wine.
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