Out of the blue, Stephanie calls me on a Friday night, her voice a nightingale in my tired mind. "Come to Rome" she says, so here I am on her laptop at 1:30 AM, trying to make sense of all the Limoncellos and red wine we've shared somewhere deep in the alleys of Trastevere.
We talk about Santa Monica and Clare Waight Keller, about nothing and everything except Henry. She seems happy, I pretend I'm happy too and part of me really is, just by being close to her again. It's funny how months and years can pass unnoticed until one day you're back, standing in that exact same spot like nothing ever changed.
I remember her coat on the day when we first met, the secrets we shared and the autumn. It was all so different back then, we were other people with the same voids in our hearts. And here she is now, in her nightgown and powder pink panties, singing along to the radio just like she did before.