S talks to me, she's the mirror image of Henry in that sense. She's also significantly cuter in pink and has the alcohol tolerance of a high school beauty queen (in spite of being raised on red wine and Sambuca). The way we stumble through the narrow Trasteverian alleys late at nights makes me think of rain clouds and the everlasting sun above them. Maybe it's just our Champagne breakfasts softly whispering back like long-protracted echoes.
"How long will you stay here for" she asks in the shadow of the Trinità dei Monti. I'm close behind her, the sweet smell of chestnut hair in broad daylight, hands tight around her pearl white swan's neck. If I press hard enough I'll kill her. My worried heartbeats are thunder and butterfly wings and I tell her that I haven't yet decided.
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