A Taste of Tuscany

The Medici’s are to Florence, Italy~like peanut butter is to jelly.  They are synonymous. Pure and simple.

The Medici’s were the wealthiest family in the community and controlled Florence throughout the Renaissance.  They were quite a powerhouse even by modern day standards.   Not only were they rich, but they were patrons of the arts and as a result, during the 14^th-16^th century, art flourished. 



Cosimo I De' Medici

Other rich merchants in the spirit of competition, as well as giving them bragging rights, tried to out-do each other by commissioning the grandest buildings to be erected or work of art to be painted or sculpted. Who doesn’t love a little friendly competition?  Florence blossomed into a thriving community known for its beauty and art and has been associated as the birthplace of the Renaissance.

Piazza della Signoria

As a lover of all things beautiful, when I think about Firenze, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Tintoretto, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Ghiberti, Raphael and so many other great artists come to mind.  I’m so grateful to be in a lovely city surrounded by extraordinary talent~all under the Tuscan sun. 

Fountain of Neptune

All I have to do is step outside my hotel and see a building or monument that is a visual reminder of those who walked the cobblestone streets centuries ago and worked in this city filled to the brim with magnificence.

Giotto's Campanile



The Gates of Paradise-Bronze Doors by Lorenzo Ghiberti



And here I am.  Just me, soaking in all the culture Florence has to offer, letting it wash over me like the golden sunlight draping over the city. 

~My Firenze~

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

Having spent seven years working on a novel filled with plots, subplots and conspiracies, I decided that I needed to put the writer in me on vacation while I was in the land of Medici’s, palaces and magnificent art and simply enjoy my new friend.

Tall, Fair, Handsome and I continued listening to jazz as the dinner plates were removed.  I just couldn’t get over the fact we were sitting in an ultra modern restaurant, listening to great jazz, eating nouvelle Italian cuisine with views of the Arno River.  He pulled me closer and gently kissed the palm of my hand.  I felt my cheeks flush and my heart race.  For a man of few words, his actions spoke volumes.

And then the waiter arrived with dessert, breaking the spell.  He placed the panna cotta with strawberry sauce in front of me and gave me the look, which translates in any language: You had better finish this!  The dessert was tantalizing just like my tall, fair handsome man, but I was too full to finish.  When the waiter returned, he looked at my unfinished plate and then at me.  Here we go again!  I gave TFH the knowing eye that only close friends and family understand.  He barely could contain his laughter when I got scolded by the waiter.

“What?  You no like dessert, either?  You no finish nothing.  What I tell the chef?”

Oh, how the Italians and my mother are worried I’m not eating enough! 

I needed to make a quick get-away from my indignant waiter.  Not wanting to be castigated for having a small stomach, I excused myself and raced down the stairs to the lady’s room to escape his ire.

There was a small lounge area in between the men’s room and the lady’s room with a sectional couch and a whimsical modern table.  What an unexpected surprise.

I wish I could have taken it home.  It would have been a great memento and a perfect table for writing my next novel.  With TFH in my life, a date with Michelangelo’s David in the future, modern furniture and jazz in ancient Firenze, I couldn’t imagine what my next adventure would be, but smiled at the possibilities that were unfolding.

TFH and I walked back to the hotel, pausing to enjoy the stunning view of the Arno River. 

It was there that his warm lips kissed mine for the first time. Lights from the restaurants and buildings reflected golden onto the otherwise dark river, illuminating the fact that TFH continued to be a man of mystery.

Strangers in the Night

As Tall, Fair, Handsome and I walked over the Ponte Vecchio to the restaurant, I took inventory of his clothes:  Two thousand dollar suit, Gucci shoes, Italian Murse (European man’s purse) and perfect grooming from his hair to his manicured nails. And impeccable manners.  Too good to be true?  Or perfect con artist?

If he wasn’t CIA, FBI or a jewel thief, maybe he was some sort of Count or Duke and heir to his country’s throne.  I shook my head at my ridiculous scenario.  It was becoming the stuff that romance novels are made of.

But, he certainly was a curiosity indeed.  Our table was in front of a loud jazz trio.  I couldn’t help but smile at the irony.  Here I was in an ancient city like Firenze, listening to modern jazz.  It was such a dichotomy:  the old combined with the new.  I just loved it.

The waiter came by and gave us menus.  Since we were in Tuscany, we  both decided to order the Tuscan soup.

When it was placed in front of me, I was certain the waiter brought me the wrong dish.  I looked into the bowl and saw dry stewed vegetables with cooked bread.  What’s the deal?  No broth? It’s called soup-not stew;   it was delicious and hearty, but there was no way I could finish it and then have dinner, too.  So, I just had a taste and watched TFH finish his.

The waiter returned.  He looked into my full bowl of dry soup and then into my eyes.  “What, you no like?”

“Oh, no, I loved it.”

“You no finish it.  You too skinny.  You should eat.  Eat!” he emphasized.

Gosh!  He’s worse than a Jewish mother.  My mother could take lessons from him.

“It’s delicious but a little too filling for me.  “Don’t forget,” I said with a laugh, “I still have dinner and dessert to tackle.” 

With a pained look on his face, he removed the plates and walked to the kitchen.

I shrugged my shoulders at TFH.  I’m not a big eater, but I eat frequently much to the chagrin of my friends who gain weight at the mere sight of a rich dessert.  Hate me if you like. Even the Italians weren’t thrilled. But, I can’t help it.  I’ve got great genes and a wickedly fast metabolism. 

The band set up as dinner was being served. 

We both had a savory fish fillet, stuffed with zucchini and potato.  Green Dolphin Street, was the first number.  For a trio, they were dynamic. I tried to make conversation with TFH, but as my voice began to crescendo above the music, the band finished, leaving  my vociferous words hanging in the air for the entire restaurant to hear. I was so embarrassed.

I wondered if he reserved this particular table because it would inhibit talking and questioning with the loud music being played.  Coincidence? 

A Man of Mystery

The view from the hotel’s rooftop terrace was stunning.  I was so distracted by Tall, Fair and Handsome's good looks and the panoramic view of Florence, I immediately took a sip of my martini and tried to settle down.  I felt like a school-girl. 

He watched me admiring the view as I sipped my cocktail. When I glanced back at him, he was still staring at me.  And he was very quiet, unnerving me a little.

“So, what brings you to Florence?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

He sipped his scotch slowly.  “Business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

His eyes drifted away from me. 

“I’d rather not say.”

“Really?”

Thinking back to our train ride from Venice to Florence, the conversation flowed.  I didn’t understand the change.  And then it occurred to me.  He was asking lots of questions, making me speak.  I did all of the talking without realizing it, interpreting that as interest.  Hmmm, I thought, this guy is really good. And handsome, making me lose my composure for a moment.

“I’m confused.  You rescued me from a lunatic on a train, helped me to the hotel and invited me for cocktails…and you’re so quiet,”  I giggled nervously.  It was like pulling teeth.  If I were a dentist, he’d be toothless and needing implants.

“I’d rather talk about you,” he said smiling.  “You are far more interesting.”

That line would have worked in my twenties…but not now.  I didn’t know what to think.

He took my hand.  “Look, I don’t wish to be evasive.  Can’t we just leave it at that?”

I raised an eyebrow-a subliminal message-to indicate a response which he obviously missed or ignored.  I exhaled and took a large sip of my martini and nervously nibbled on the olive that was in the drink.

“Anyway, does it really matter?”

Does it really matter? echoed in my ears. It’s just like having your cake and not eating it, too.  I just don’t get it.  Why did he invite me for cocktails and dinner?  I was certainly curious about him and then my imagination got the best of me.  What if he was an FBI or CIA agent working with Interpol on a secret mission?  Or better yet, what if he was a jewel thief like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief!   He certainly was equally stunning.

I glanced down at my naked fingers, devoid of jewelry, thankful I never wear the good stuff when I travel.

“So you’re a man of mystery?”

“At least for the time being,” he said with a wink.

I suddenly had an uneasy feeling.  Was he dangerous?  No, how could he be?  He came to my rescue on the train and had been an absolute gentleman.  I suppose Charlie Manson’s neighbors would have said he seemed like a good man, always quiet and kept to himself.  Oh, goodness.  I was scaring myself.  Or, maybe he was just being playful?

After we finished our cocktails, he said, “I made reservations at Golden View Open Bar on Ponte Vecchio.  Ready?”  He extended his hand.

My curiosity was getting the best of me as it always does. So, how could I refuse? 

The Invitation



No lunatic ticket-taker or light switch fiasco was going to ruin my day.  I unpacked, showered and put on a bright floral dress.  Florence was mine for the taking.

So in my cute flirty dress, I walked around Florence…the city that is… with camera in hand, and made my way down to the center of everything Firenze:  The Duomo, Giotto’s Campanile, the Baptistery, Palazzo Vecchio, and the Loggia dei Lanzi.



Facade of the Duomo



PalazzoVecchio

 

Loggia dei Lanzi



The photo ops would have been wonderful if it weren’t for the aggressive tourists growing exponentially as I tried to get close enough to take pictures of all the magnificent landmarks of Florence. Pushing and shoving my slender body between men built like Goliath, I finally found a place.  At the very moment I snapped a picture of The Gates of Paradise, a young Asian ran in front of me and I now have a great souvenir of her in front of the world renowned bronze door.  Looking over her shoulder at me, she bowed and apologized.  What could I say?  She was a tourist just like me.  So, I promised to email her the photograph when I returned home. Determined to get a picture of only the doors, I waited for the flood of tourists to part like the Red Sea,  finally giving me an opportunity.

Of course I did a little window shopping and enjoyed all the leather goods to Pashmina scarves the vendors were selling in their outdoor squares, making mental notes of some of the purchases I wanted to make.

When I arrived back in my room, something on the floor caught my eye.   

Too early for a bill, I mused, picking up the envelope. The note read: 

When you rescue someone, they say you are responsible for their life.  If you’re free, I’d like to take you for dinner.  Cocktails first?  Meet me on the highest deck of the rooftop terrace.  Eight o’clock?

Well, well! The plot certainly thickened.  My first day in Firenze and I already had a date with Tall, Fair and Handsome.  I was relieved he suggested having drinks at the hotel.  Although he was my hero on the train, he was still a stranger.  At least I’d be on my home turf, making me feel much more relaxed.  And if having cocktails with him was nice, I could easily be persuaded to have dinner with him later.

Fiasco in Firenze

With me, nothing is ever easy.  After lunch with TFH, we both checked in at the front desk.  Although I was staying in a lovely four star hotel, the Baglioni looked like a fortress with a somber interior. The bellman grabbed my luggage and accompanied me to my room.  We walked down an aisle, up some stairs, down another corridor which snaked around and then down more stairs and more stairs and even more stairs to another hallway into what seemed like the bowels of the earth. I knew I’d need a GPS to find my way back to the front of the hotel.  The dark brown and black décor was austere and intimidating with dark, heavy wood beams.  I felt like I was in a 13^th century monastery.  But it was a true four star hotel and I tried to overlook the dark, dreary décor.

Carrying my luggage, he grunted every few feet until we arrived at my room.  I inserted the credit-card like key in the door and opened it.  The room was pitch black and I couldn’t see where the light switch was located.  I ran my hands along the wall and there was nothing except what felt like a cool, metal box.  Who can't find a light switch? Talk about embarrassing and humbling. 

Still feeling like an idiot, I hear him from behind, "Signorina, signorina…I will help you turn on the light.”

Help me turn on the light?  He must think I’m a really stupid American.

He took the card from my hand and slipped it into the metal rectangular holder on the wall.  Suddenly dim  light from above cascaded over me.

"So, this is the light switch?"

“You must keep the key in the metal case if you want light.”

He placed my suitcase on a luggage rack and walked over to the dark brown shutters and opened them.  The room went from mid-evil to lovely with bright sunlight streaming in.  And what a view!

“If you leave the shutters open, it will automatically shut off the air conditioning.” He closed the shutters, the air came back on and the room was dreary except for the above lighting.  So much for the view.

"So, I have to remain in the dark?”

“It’s not dark.  You have overhead lights.”

And with that, he left.

I went into the bathroom to freshen up, but even a rocket scientist wouldn’t be able to figure out how to simply turn on the faucet in the shower and sink.  Thirty minutes into my fiasco and too stubborn and embarrassed to call the front desk for help, I turned the knobs every which way, improvising as I went along.  Eureka!  Water poured out of the sink.  After this great accomplishment, I was ready to take on the shower which only had a two foot glass enclosure on the side of the tub.  Eventually I figured out how to turn on the bloody faucet and the entire bathroom was submerged and flooded.  This went on every morning. 

No shower curtains?  Like a little piece of glass is going to contain a few gallons of spritzing water?

Oh well!  The things to overcome when traveling.  Truth be told, I’d rather suffer a few minor inconveniences than stay home.  But, they never cease to amaze me.  Now that I’ve mastered non-existing light switches and insanely difficult water faucets, maybe it’s time to get my PHd in traveling 101B.

Tall, Fair and Handsome

To me, life is a smorgasbord.   I want to do it all.  Hear it all. See it all.  Taste it all.  And of course, buy it all!  So when I travel, I love to tour famous sites like the Domus Aurea, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Pantheon, Hadrian’s Mausoleum, an Etruscan  museum  (I adore the archaic smile and as a lover of all things romantic, the Sarcophagus of Cerveteri has always held a special place in my heart: a couple lying together in an embrace on top of a bed-like sarcophagus with that mesmerizing smile…more on that when I write about Rome), Mozart’s House, Versailles and the Louvre, to name a few; I enjoy eating in restaurants built in the 15^th century, strolling  through squares and off the beaten paths,  imagining what life was like way back when. And if I can find time to do a little Retail Therapy in between sight-seeing, all the better.

But, I’m equally excited to meet new people who begin as strangers and often become lifelong friends. Especially if they are tall, dark and handsome.  Or in this case, tall, fair and handsome.

When the train pulled into the station in Florence, Tall, Fair and Handsome immediately helped me with my luggage.  I of course offered to treat him to a visit to the chiropractor or a visit to a masseuse-whichever came first.  Smiling at my suggestion accentuated his adorable dimples, which made me pause for a moment.  He wheeled our luggage outside where we could see the hotel from the doorway of the station.

While the cobblestones posed no problem for our bags on wheels, walking in stilettos on cobblestones was much like trying to avoid landmines.  I would have taken up an entire Alan Funt Candid Camera episode with my cautious, more like hilarious, zigzagging between the irregular wide-gapped stones, and nearly taking a couple of unlady-like spills.  It made me appreciate the original concept of Roman sandals. But let’s face it.  Charlton Hesston couldn’t get away with stilettos anyway, so wearing Roman sandals was a no brainer for him and me in a cute flirty dress would look less than girlie; I’d probably look more like Spartacus minus the hairy legs in the original Roman shoe.  Do or die, I like my stilettos. 

It was too early to check in to the hotel, so we went upstairs to The Hotel Baglioni’s roof top restaurant for a glass of wine and some lunch. We were greeted by a  maitre d  who looked just like actor James Woods and spoke English with a charming Italian accent.

He seated us by a window, apologizing that it was the only table available.  I looked outside and had a view of the Duomo. Apologizing for this seat would be like apologizing for not having ice cubes in a glass of water for a nomad in the desert.  I was beyond grateful.  I had a view of TFH, the Duomo and an Italian James Woods look-alike.  Life was pretty good.

I abandoned my typical American habit of eating quickly, and leisurely enjoyed  my dish of tortellini floating on top of pesto made from zucchini  and dried tomatoes garnished with fresh basil and sliced parmigiano reggiano cheese. 

TFH offered me a taste of his lunch which was picture perfect. He placed a little bit of grilled vegetables and a thin slice of Scarmoza on a fork and gently placed it in between my lips. The taste was tantalizing as was the gesture. 

The trip began with a bit of drama on the train and culminated in a lovely lunch with a handsome stranger.  I couldn’t wait to see what adventures were waiting for me in Florence.  And would I have company?

Sipping Pino Grigio in a chilled glass, I leaned back in my chair and looked at my gourmet meal, the TFH, and the Duomo. Sometimes it’s the simple pleasures in life that make my heart sing and my imagination soar. 

Amen to Men!

Why do people say, “All good things must come to an end?”  Like why? I’ve never really understood that.  Nor do I understand  the expression:  You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.  So, what’s the point in having the cake?  To just look at it?

These are things I ponder when I can’t sleep, which is most nights.  Truth be told, every night.  But more on that later.

So, if all good things must end…it was time to leave my enchanted  island of Venezia and take a train to Florence.

When I arrived at the train station, I was an hour early.  I’m always in a hurry going nowhere, but this time I had a wonderful place to visit and I didn’t want to waste sixty minutes waiting, if I didn’t have to.

I was delighted to learn that there was a train leaving to Florence within five minutes, and I was able to change my ticket for only an extra eight Euro.

Although I’ve been working out at the gym for longer than I wish to confess, Olive Oil, Popeye’s dream girl, could arm wrestle me to the ground with me screaming, “Uncle!”  So, the thought of lifting my sixty pound suitcase onto the train was a bit daunting and totally unrealistic.  It was hard enough to schlep my tote bag. 

There are no porters to assist girlie girls like me or ramps to wheel my luggage up to the top level of the train. Fate intervened:  A Tall, Fair and Handsome stranger graciously volunteered  to help me lift it into the train, which was no easy task even for the gentleman, whose muscular physique I couldn’t help but notice.

 I’m sure T.F.H. got a hernia or at least back strain picking up the suitcase and placing it on each step one by one until the overstuffed luggage, the size of a Buick, made it to the top level of the train.  Panting and schvitzing, he then pushed and squeezed and cursed  it into submission. He shoved  it into what was supposed to be the “luggage compartment.”  Talk about the size of a sardine can.   Just like my room in Venice.

I didn’t know whether to hug him or apologize profusely.  I was so embarrassed.

We boarded the bustling train and I took a seat by a window, pushing my tote bag under the seat in front of me.  Next thing I knew, T.F.H. was sitting next to me.  Fate intervened again.  Or did he?

We chatted all the way to Padua, the first stop.  Out of nowhere, an Italian authority guy hurried down the aisle and asked to see my ticket.  He looked at it and then at me.  His English wasn’t very good and my Italian was less than mediocre.  Through hand gestures and fractured English, he insisted I was lying. He didn’t believe that I had changed tickets in Venice.

 I feared he would force me to get off the train right then and there.  I’m sure Padua is fabulous.  It’s in Italy, right?  But, I had hotel reservations and museum tickets for a week stay in Florence…the land of the Medici’s, Renaissance art and architecture.  How could I stay in Padua, when I had a date with David…the statue, that is and I wasn’t going to leave Italy before I saw him drenched with the glow of morning light in the Galleria dell’Accademia.  Not happening.

As the guy continued  yelling at me, I suddenly felt like I was plucked out of the train and placed into a cartoon.  Some sort of weird surrealist’s animation.   He looked ridiculous dressed in a fluorescent orange one piece jumper, throwing a temper tantrum.  He was relentless.  

T.F.H. shot out of his seat and towered over the ticket-taker, causing the little man to fall back a step.  Gaining his composure, he immediately placed his hands on his hips and began yelling at my hero.  I listened to the duo duking it out verbally, only understanding half of the conversation.  T.F.H. insisted that he witnessed the conductor change my ticket and the little man who looked like an orange sherbet gelato refused to back down. As did the T.F.H. man.  No one has ever fought over  me before.  It was kind of nice. Chivalry isn’t dead,  I thought as I watched T.F.H. defend my honor.

“You shouldn’t talk to a lady like that!”

More Italian words were bellowed with wild hand gestures, flailing above his head like a maniac.

I watched with such gross fascination, not really hearing anything. I was lost in my own fantasy.  It was as though there was a bubble above his head with an arrow pointing to his mouth:  “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” 

Suddenly he reminded me of one of Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s prisoners in Arizona, whose inmates are forced to wear pink uniforms, like that would make them feel less hostile or macho.

 I tried to hide the smile that was forthcoming because the comparison was  pretty funny.   With his diminutive size, he obviously had a Napoleonic complex especially standing next to T.F.H., making him more determined to get his way.

 I think it would be difficult for even a tough guy like The Terminator to gain any kind of respect while ranting and raving in an orange jump-suit.  All that was missing were stilettos and a matching purse.  When you think about it, it’s a hard outfit to pull off, especially for an authority figure. And a short, hot-headed one at that.

Finally, he shut up. His jaw jutted out with fierce indignation as he pointed to the front of the train.  “Speak.  Conductor.  Go!”  I couldn’t help wonder if he deliberately knew he was imitating Tonto with one word monotone commands.  I would have been amused  if I wasn’t a little scared of the tiny tyrant.  

I ran to the front of the train and told the conductor what the village idiot was doing.  He stormed down the aisle, reprimanded him and confirmed that he himself had made the change minutes before departure. The conductor winked at me, stole a glance at my long legs and strode back to take the driver’s seat

The ticket-taker glared at me and the T.F.H. gentleman and then scurried off to harass someone else, I’m sure.

We both sat down with a long sigh of relief and a nervous giggle at what could have happened to me.  Imagine…Me… Thrown off the train…Now that would have made a good story to blog about! I thought.  Glancing over at T.F.H., I realized a new chapter might be beginning. Much more interesting than being thrown off a train.  Romance in Firenze…The possibilities made me smile.  But so did T.D.H in Venice. And then I thought: What if they both met?  Oh Heavens!

“Where are you staying in Florence?” he asked, stopping my ludicrous scenario from unfolding.

“Hotel Baglioni.”

He looked at me in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me…you, too?”  I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Obviously we were destined to meet,” he said. 

“Fate?”

Lovers

While I was walking through the Piazza San Marco, I was approached by a fast talking Italian.

“Signorina, signorina! Are you going to Murano Island?”

I was startled. “Why?”

“How would you like to take a free vaporetto to the Island?”

“Free?  What’s the catch?”

“Catch?  Non capisco che la parola.”

As a tourist, I’m always a little suspicious when I’m approached. Especially by fast talking salesmen. Thinking he may be the distraction, I look around to see if there was a second guy working with him, trying to pick my pockets.  No.  He was alone, holding brochures and tickets.

Seemed innocent enough, but I was a little concerned I was going to be kidnapped.  And if so, who would know?  Kidnapped in Venice?  I guess there are worse places to be, but still an uncomfortable thought.

“Our Chamber of Commerce has hired men to walk around the Piazza, inviting tourists to travel free of charge to the showroom on Murano Island.”

“Why would they offer free vaporetto service during the height of the tourist season?”

“Venetian glass has been made on Murano since the 13^th century. Unfortunately there has been an explosion of imitations being sold on the cheap in Venice. The quality isn’t the same and as a result, Murano is losing business to unknowing tourists who purchase these disgraceful replicas for less money.”

I shook my head.  "How terrible."

He accompanied me to the vaporetto and with an outstretched hand gave me a ticket to board the water taxi.

Because of the fraudulent duplications, photographs are not allowed in the showroom.  It would be like giving a robber the keys to the vault. But, there was a work of art I had hoped to buy.  One of my clients has a statue called Lovers on her baby grand piano.  I have admired it for years and hoped to have one like it on my piano one day.

They say timing is everything and it was certainly true in this case.  The grand showroom displays enormous chandeliers in every color you can imagine, fountains, stemware, bowls, and hundreds of one-of-a-kind hand-blown glass art.  As I made my way through all the various rooms looking at these beautiful items, I found it~The statue of Lovers.

“What is the price,” I asked the salesman.

“1500 Euro."

I gasped.

"And signed by the artist.  Unfortunately this is the last one;  it was just purchased moments ago.  Would you like to order one?”

I was concerned about ordering a piece of art sight unseen.  This statue was elegant and delicate. Two bodies intertwined in an embrace.  Absolutely lovely. 

 I left the showroom disappointed.  I had traveled so many miles to finally bring this treasure home.  For me, it was an artistic reminder that I shouldn't give up on love. That love is real and one day I will have true love in my life. I didn’t know if the corporate pilot would be the one…but, in my heart I knew my beshert would capture my heart and a love story would begin, culminating in a happy ending once and for all.

Most tourists visit the showroom and then leave but since I was already on Murano, I decided to stay for awhile and explore.  I walked around the tiny island, purchased some gifts in little shops for friends and family. I saw some unusual glass objects in various courtyards on the island...an outdoor showroom of sorts.

            Two months after I returned home, FedEx rang my door bell and had me sign for a package.

                                                             Inside was a note:

Before I flew my boss and his family back to the US, I wanted you to have something to remind you of me.  Perhaps this will be us one day soon. 

It could only be one thing. Carefully I dismantled the packaging, pulled out the Styrofoam and there it was!      

                                                  Lovers                                         

              He was the one who bought the last piece of glass art.  I couldn’t help but smile...and wonder.