Early Sunday morning in last night's dress, a warm bed in an large apartment at the end of Via Prenestina. The sun isn't up yet, Stephanie's eyes glowing like flares in the silent dark, waiting to be rescued. A half-dressed man asleep between us, empty bottles of Prosecco Spumante scattered across the wooden floors where the air smells of cigarette smoke and stone dust.
She gets up and
starts gathering her wrinkled clothes: a graphite pencil skirt, white
silk blouse, heels from Ferragamo. It's a long walk back but we have all
the time in the world and no one bothers us because it's too late or
maybe still too early.
"I have things to do tomorrow" she says,
"will you be alright on your own?" She takes my hand in hers and we walk
past Catholic churches, ancient temples and fascist boulevards across
the river to her apartment above the little restaurant on the corner.
Five missed calls from Henry. He can wait until tomorrow.