It takes an hour or so to walk from her apartment to the less crowded parts of the city. A little longer in heels. The wine tastes better there, Stephanie charms the waitors at bars and restaurants and they bring us more Martini Rosso on the rocks in branded highball glasses. We stumble home on our bare feet, just before sunrise, shoes in our hands and cigarette smoke deep infused in our light spring dresses.
Her father is staying over Easter, he
knows better than to ask questions. I don't think he's ever seen her
with a man, not even the ones she smugles out before he delivers our
breakfast in the morning. Maybe he knows but prefers to think of her as
innocent and pure, the way she always was when we were growing up in
Everything and nothing has changed since then. I'm
afraid of what I would find if I ever went back, afraid of what I might