It lies draped across the chair, effortless to retrieve

A soft blue in an otherwise neutral environment

Its softness, a result of multiple usage and washings,

Seems to reach out and stroke my cheek.

Each time I see it as I cross the room,

Warmth infuses me as memories invade my heart.

On rainy, lonely days, I pull it from its resting place.

And lie across the bed, its softness pressed against my cheek,

A lingering, sweet scent envelops me in a delicious state,

And a smile suffuses my face as memories encircle me.

Whispering echoes hover and swirl all about;

They comfort me in waves of long abated intimacy.

My fingers gingerly caress the blue softness,

And tears fall across my cheeks as memories escape

To taunt me with reverberations of longing.

How long has it been since you were here?

Whenever I hold and caress this essence of you

Comfort is mine and you’re still beside me.

When I cannot muster a smile and life is arduous,

I wrap myself in the blue mellowness,

And life immediately abounds with refreshed joy.

Oh, but peace and joy are mine once again!

With resounding and overwhelming renewal,

The world aligns itself and endurance emanates.

There is a long standing comfort and reassurance

That perpetually flows from the softness of what was yours

Despite that from this life, you have been absent far too long.

I shall always keep your sweater near me, within easy reach

It is a comforting reminder of the unconditional promise

Of a wondrous, unconditional love that fills eternity.

I once could call you mine and loved you

But you went into the endlessness of the night

As though seeking refuge from a storm.

I miss you with each beat of my sad heart.

Come back to me, I pray.

With words of love renewed and hope profound,

Tell me that you are mine once again.

I promise to be loving with each spin of the earth.

Or if you cannot return,

Please show me that you’ve found joy

In each and everything you do

And I’ll no longer be filled with enduring regret.

For I love you more than all I know

More than my own residing happiness

I’ll find peace and more in your success

Of all you seek in love’s eternal and abiding flame.

For I love you more than life itself

Despite your absence from my life

Your joy will be my life survived,

My motivation, and all that I seek.

Our lives were star-crossed and doomed

Yet I would give it all for a mere glimpse

Of all that I knew with you

For its worth exceeds the loss.

Giselle sat at the small table in the Parisian café where she was waiting for her date to arrive. Paris was such a busy city, as was Jacques, and it was quite possible he had been held up by unforeseen events at the bookstore where they both worked. At any rate, she was sure that he would be arriving shortly. He had promised her, after all, that tonight would be a very special first date for the two of them. They had been working together for a year now, but they had never been on an actual date before this evening.

She was sipping a glass of Merlau, or Merlot, a new wine in Paris harvested from succulent grapes in the Bordeaux region, but it did not help to quell the butterflies of anticipation that flitted about in her stomach as she waited. The wine was rich and velvety, while also fruity and spicy, and had become a favorite. The rich Merlau was a lovely accompaniment to the ambience of the dimly lit café and its' small crowd of patrons.

As Giselle sipped the Merlau, she looked about the café. She was immediately intrigued when she spied two men sitting in the corner as they drank their forbidden drinks of absinthe while they talked with one another. Whatever it was they were discussing, it was obvious that their conversation was somewhat heated. One was a handsome, tall, blonde-haired man, and the other was a bit shorter and stockier, with dark hair and a mustache. Eventually, after apparently becoming angry and frustrated, the stockier man rose hastily from his seat and abruptly left.

Surprised by their public disagreement, Giselle quickly looked away and toward the door in hopes of finding Jacques, but such was not the case. When she turned back to look at the remaining man, he gave her a delightfully handsome smile and shrugged his shoulders. As she smiled somewhat timidly back at him, he picked up his drink and leisurely walked toward her.

“Mademoiselle,” he greeted her. “Might I sit with you for a bit? I fear my friend has suddenly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship.” Not waiting for a response, he smiled charmingly as he slid into the empty seat at the small table.

Startled by the man’s boldness but not wanting to be rude, Giselle nodded. “Oui,” she said. “But, monsieur, please know that my date will be arriving shortly.”

“Lucky man,” the tall, slender man commented as he settled himself comfortably in the seat across from her. “I’m Scott,” he said with a beautiful smile that had obviously impressed many women.

“Bonjour, Scott. I am Giselle,” she smiled back at him.

“So, you are waiting for your sweetheart? Your petit ami? He is your intended?” the man asked. It was obvious that he was American from his accent.

“Oh, no!” Giselle quickly answered and shyly smiled. “It’s our first date. We work together, you see, at the bookstore.”

The man smiled ruefully and with exerted concentration said, “Ah, but l'amour is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s fresh and young. And yet, as time transcends, it so often becomes a damning element in our lives.” His glorious smile slowly faded to a demure frown as he spoke. “I should know,” he added and held up his left hand for her to see his ring, indicating he was married. “At best, you can’t live with it, and you can’t live without it.” The handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last commentary.

Giselle was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of l'amour? Moreover, why was he inclined to share it with her? It was obvious that he had had too much to drink. Perhaps this is why he and his friend had argued. Were they arguing about l'amour?

“Monsieur,” she began, but he immediately held up his hand to interrupt her.

“Please, I must insist that you call me Scott,” he said, his blue eyes gentle as he appealed to her.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink for this evening. I thought that this drink - this absinthe - was forbidden anyway. C'est tres mauvais, no?,” Giselle whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink in front of him, alluding to its' purported danger. She was aware that absinthe had been illegal in Paris since 1915, and yet, here this man was drinking it a full ten years later in full view as if it was not.

Scott looked down into his glass and smiled with assuredness. With the utmost air of confidence, he said, “Ma jeune fille, only the most intense of pleasures are derived from the depths of the forbidden.”

Giselle blushed at his words and attempted to change the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, monsieur…I mean, Scott?” she quickly corrected.

The man gave her a wry smile. “I fear she finds her pleasures in the forbidden as well,” he said and then sighed. “Alas, she has taken off with her friends for more exciting times than intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and me, as you have just unfortunately witnessed.”

“I see,” said Giselle, genuinely sorry for this man’s current misfortune in life, friendship, and l'amour.

“Do you? Do you really see?” Scott asked, intently watching her and awaiting her reply.

Unsure how to respond, Giselle once again attempted to deter the conversation from the question with which he had just presented her. “Why are you in our lovely city of Paris, Scott? Are you working here?” she asked.

“Paris is such an enchanting and fulfilling city, and so full of opportunities. I am here at preset, mon chéri, in an attempt to finish my latest novel - at least on good days. However, on bad days, like today, I drink and tend to argue with my closest friend. And I suppose one could say that I drink and argue much too frequently,” he said as he took another large swallow of his drink.

“Oh! You are a writer! Comme c'est intéressant! What are your books about?” Giselle was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his charming, attractive smile and nonchalantly leaned back in his chair. “Well, let’s see, Giselle. I mostly write about l'amour. Do you not find it ironic in consideration of the sad view of love I’ve just painted for you?”

Indeed, Giselle did indeed find it ironic. It was exceedingly odd that a man with such a dismal, disappointed view of l’amour would choose to write about it. Then again, love was a wonderful subject for a book. Moreover, l’amour was truly a wondrous thing, at least in her experience.

“Please allow me to explain my pretty, petite French flower,” Scott said as he leaned on his elbow across the table to look intently into her green eyes. “I write about l'amour, mon chéri, because I am a hopeless romantic and have not yet given up on achieving it to the fullest capacity in my life.” He relaxed and leaned back in his chair again as took a sip of his drink before continuing. “I have a need to know and understand love; to have it fill me to the depths of my being. In fact, I crave love with an intensity that extends beyond a need for sustenance of any kind and reiterates the words I have just spoken.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, I crave love more than I crave even this poison.”

Scott finished his drink. “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?” he asked as he lifted his empty glass as if to pay homage to l'amour and to emphasize the truth of the words he spoke.

As Giselle pondered a response, Scott rose, declaring it was time for another drink and headed to the bar. She watched as he ordered himself another drink of absinthe. While he lingered for a bit at the bar, she turned to find Jacques entering through the café's entrance. She lifted her hand to wave to him. He immediately spotted her and made his way to the small table. Giselle rose and kissed him warmly on the cheek in greeting. The smile she gave him was all the assurance he needed to let him know she was very happy to see him.

“I am so sorry I am late, mon tendre,” he said. “I was unfortunately detained at work.”

Giselle smiled sweetly. “It is not a problem, Jacques. I am just so happy to see you now.”

Just then, the stranger meandered by their table, pausing to introduce himself to Giselle’s guest, a fresh drink firmly in his hand.

“I see your ami has arrived,” Scott said, and smiled at Jacques, extending his hand in greeting. Giselle made the introductions, a bit wary of what Scott might say to Jacques.

“I fear, monsieur, that I was a bit lonely and kept this sweet, jeune fille entertained for a short while as she awaited your arrival,” Scott said. “We had a very thorough discussion on the subject of l’amour, and I gave her my most earnest opinion on the subject matter.”

Jacques’ brow rose in surprise and Giselle blushed, but Scott was oblivious to either of their responses as he rambled on. “I informed your sweet Giselle that I am a hopeless romantic. Moreover, I do think l’amour will eventually win the day for all of us. Do you not agree, Jacques?" Scott smiled and nodded, not waiting for Jacques' reply. "Yes, I see that you do understand, mon ami, because of the way you look at this delicate, beautiful French damsel. that l'amour may very well be a real thing.” Suddenly Scott turned serious and gave a gracious bow before he added, “I pray that l’amour will be a very real thing for you two sweethearts and fill your hearts. I can easily see that it is already a flower nearing a full bloom for each of you.”

With those words, he turned on his heel as suddenly as he had appeared and headed back to his former table where the man with whom he had been arguing earlier in the evening joined him again. The two friends hugged, laughed, and patted each other on the back as they took a seat and began a new, intense conversation, all former arguments seemingly forgotten.

Giselle nervously turned to Jacques, who was watching her with wide-eyed amazement.

“Jacques,” she began. “I did not know what to say when he approached and began to discuss such serious things like l’amour. I found him to be a very sad man, always hoping to find love, but never seeming to find it.”

Jacques continued to stare at her in disbelief. “Giselle,” he said. “Do you not know who that gentleman is?” he asked.

“No, I don’t have clue who he is other than he said his name is Scott. And I know he’s American, but that is all.”

“Mon chéri, that is none other than F. Scott Fitzgerald, the famous American novelist. Moreover, he is sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another very famous American writer. These two writers frequent the bars of Paris, and all know them for their carousing, rowdy ways. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne – or so the story goes,” Jacques said as he eyed the two men and their drinks.

Giselle dubiously looked at her date. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? I am not sure that I have heard of them,” she said. “However, Scott did tell me that he is a writer.” She turned to watch the two men as they conversed, a new view of Scott taking root in her mind. She would have to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about that wonderful subject called l’amour for which he continuously searched and longed.

Giselle turned back to her date. “Famous American writer or no, I would much rather be sitting here with you, Jacques, enjoying this night.”

Jacques picked up her slender hand and kissed it. “And I, with you, my sweet Giselle. Still, not many can say that they met someone as famous as F. Scott Fitzgerald on their date. Perhaps you should consider picking up the trade and penning a story about such an incredulous encounter this beautiful Parisian night!”

Giselle shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, Jacques. I will leave the writing to the two of them instead,” she said and the couple laughed as they began the first night of many to follow for them.

Indeed, a lifetime of love and many happy years spent together would be forthcoming for Giselle and Jacques. Who can say? Perhaps that fateful meeting with F. Scott Fitzgerald, a hopeless romantic, and the ardent words he spoke that night, propelled their love to a beautiful and ultimate end. Regardless, there is little doubt Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, and perhaps a wee bit envious, of the love the two shared over the course of their lives together.

The heat of the blazing sun beats down upon the sands

On the beaches along the coast of Mexico’s Cancun.

Lazy days, drinks in hand, it’s where life has no demands;

Summers like these are few and never come too soon.

Sailboats drifting swiftly across the crystal blue waters

While a multitude of peddlers sell homemade wares.

There’s nothing as wonderful as this side of the border

Where the people are so kind and beyond compare.

Nights under the stars with the soft sound of waves,

Colors of music drifting to fill the hearts of all.

It’s something for which my soul will always crave

And with the utmost fondness shall always recall.

The lush heat and beauty of Mexico’s coast compels

And beckons to me in summer, weaving me in its spell.

OK, we’ve all been there at one time or another as a writer. You work hard – very hard – on a particular piece, and then you edit and fine-tune it time and again, until you finally post it for publication. Once your poem, commentary, short story, or even prelude to a novel has been published, you find yourself repeatedly checking its stats, sure that the masses will love your piece as much as you. As days – and then long weeks - go by, your stats change only minimally, so you try to convince yourself that not everyone has the same refined taste as you do when it comes to writing. Surely, however, the media format you've chosen, in all its glory and knowledge will recognize your work's outstanding attributes and bestow an accolade of recognition. So, you patiently wait, day after day, week after week, until the designated moment finally arrives, all too sure that your piece of work will be cited as a winner. Repeatedly throughout the day, you refresh the homepage until at long last, the list of winners appears. What? Wait a minute and hold the presses. There must be a ginormous mistake because your piece is completely missing from the cited winners. In abject despair and disbelief, you throw yourself on the floor and cry for at least half of an hour, completely and utterly devastated. Sure, there were thousands upon thousands of entries, but everyone you know loved your piece and assured you it would be a winner, so how the world did this happen? How did you not get it right this time? You were so sure you’d written the perfect piece.

Does this sound at all familiar to you? Have you written that perfect piece of prose and submitted it to a challenge, only to not achieve the expected, coveted prize or recognition? Have you been filled with disappointment and had your heart broken - or am I the only one? In all honesty, this scenario has happened to me on more occasions that I care to admit. Did it hurt? Without a doubt. Did it crush my desire to write? Absolutely and emphatically not. Following each and every failure to win, I have responded by picking myself up off the floor, and in true glamorous movie starlet fashion, I have remind myself that there’s always tomorrow and the possibility of more writing attempts. And thus, a new quest has begun thereafter as each day I once again go in search of new challenges with a fervent hope that the next time, I will be able to produce a much better piece - something noble and enduring. Isn’t that what writing - and life - are all about? We must not become too complacent in the rituals of our everyday existence, because in the grand scheme of things, we should always strive for the stars in order to achieve the very best in all upon which we embark.

So, yes, I've had my heart broken and my writing rejected on more than one occasion, but the truth is that these things have taught me much: perseverance, discipline, dedication, and more importantly, a desire for finer writing skills, because with every piece I write, I am able to see improvement. I suppose, theoretically speaking, I could thank the publishers for not selecting my pieces as top winners, but then again, let's not get carried away. In the thread of honesty, I will instead simply thank them instead for helping me achieve improved results each and every day:

Thank you potential publishers for teaching me much in my artful pursuit of writing (despite my often having to nurse a broken heart along the learning curve).

"I am still learning." Michelangelo

It was five-thirty in the afternoon on a Thursday, and Zelda was seated at a café in Florence that overlooked the picturesque Piazza Duomo. The Café Florian had become a norm in her everyday existence during the last year she had lived in Florence. Upon finishing work for the day, she would always stop by the small café to enjoy the beauty of the piazza where she could unwind and watch the diversity of people as she indulged in an aromatic, rich caffè latte. She had come to cherish the time at the café, but she also looked forward to seeing Mateo each day. Seeing Mateo seemed to make the day complete for reasons she had yet to fully understand.

“Ciao signorina!” Mateo greeted her this sunny afternoon as he stopped by the table to take her order, although she was aware that he full well already knew what she wanted since she ordered the same thing each day. Mateo was the owner of the small café, and he made it a point to personally welcome Zelda and take her order on each of her visits. It was fairly evident to all who sat nearby that he did so to flirt with the beautiful, blonde American. He was slightly older, or so Zelda thought, although not old enough to make any substantial difference in their relationship. His English, though good, was still a bit lacking at times. Regardless, it was easy to discern that the two had much in common.

“Ciao Mateo,” she smiled. “How are you?"

“I am very well,” he said with a flirtatious wink. “At least now that you are here, Zelda. And how are you today, my beautiful American friend?” His smile was broad and his eyes twinkled as he spoke.

“I am well,” Zelda replied. “I think I’ll have…”

Mateo immediately interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “Si, si….yes, allow me. I know, you will have your same? Si? The caffè latte?”

“Si,” Zelda laughed. “Why do you even ask?”

Their conversations always employed a mixture of English and Italian, as each attempted to converse in the other’s language, albeit with somewhat stilted accents.

As Mateo left to get her coffee, Zelda noticed the activity on the piazza this afternoon. There was a large stage constructed and the workers were hanging lights all around and above it. Massive, brilliant red curtains draped the sides of the stage. It was obvious there would be something special happening at the piazza, but she had not heard anything about an outdoor performance and was curious. Once Mateo returned, coffee in hand, she was quick to question him.

“Mateo, what is happening in the piazza? Is there going to be a performance here?”

“Si, my friend. There will be beautiful music for everyone to enjoy this evening. A trio will be singing la musica bel canto – or the finest music Italy has to offer. Will you be going, Zelda?” he asked, keenly interested in her response.

Zelda had not heard about the concert. “I'm not sure, Mateo. I didn’t know anything about it,” she replied.

Mateo took the liberty of seating himself in the vacant seat beside her. “Zelda, my friend, you must come. You cannot be here in Italy and not hear our musica bel canto in such a wonderful way. It will be bellisimo! Please, say you will be my guest. Si? Allow me to introduce you to something wonderful and magnificent from my country. It will be Italy at its finest!” Mateo insisted. “You will not regret it. I promise this to you!”

Zelda smiled, encouraged by Mateo’s enthusiasm. She had no plans for the evening and did not hesitate to accept Mateo’s invitation. While she had not dated in more than a year, she liked Mateo a great deal. Perhaps this wouldn’t be an official date, but still, she was sure it would be infinitely fun and entertaining, and Mateo was most definitely worthy of her attention. She had admired him for several months, charmed by the conversations they’d shared while also considering him to be a good friend.

“Si, I would love to accompany you, Mateo. Thank you so much for inviting me. When and where should I meet you?”

“Please, can you meet me in front of the café at eight-thirty? I will finish up about that time, we can enjoy a glass of wine. The concert will begin at 10:00 pm.”

Zelda nodded. “Yes, of course. How exciting, Mateo, to hear your musica bel canto. Thank you again for asking me.”

“It is only my pleasure. I cannot wait until this evening when I will see you again, Zelda. We will have a wonderful time, I promise,” Mateo said as he rose and gave her a handsome smile.

After finishing the coffee, Zelda headed to her small loft apartment. She had worked for a year as an English tutor for several Italian families and had done so since graduating from William & Mary. Life was very different in Italy compared to Virginia, but she loved it in every conceivable way: the people, the art, the scenery, the music, the food, the language, and of course, the wine. It was all simply amazing, and she could think of no better way to live life at this point in time, especially while she was still young.

Later that evening, Zelda looked through her closet. Mateo had never seen her in much else but jeans or slacks, so she wanted to charm him a bit this evening. She decided upon an elegant, yet simple black dress and heels. The dress had three-quarter length sleeves and would be effective against the evening’s chill, although she would take her emerald green shawl as well.

Zelda gave herself a final glance in the mirror. The simplicity of the black dress was perfect with the long, sleek hair that fell about her shoulders. With its rich blonde luster, it was easy to see why she received so many whistles and stares in Italy. While blonde hair was not something out of the ordinary in the States, one saw few Italian women with it in the current locale, and it was all too apparent that the Italian men admired it. Satisfied with her appearance, Zelda grabbed her purse and headed out the door, excitement coursing through her at the thought of seeing Mateo again.

Taking a taxi, Zelda arrived at the café shortly after eight. Although she was a little early, Mateo was waiting, as if he, too, was anxious to see her again. Despite the coolness of the evening, a warmth spread through Zelda as she neared the handsome Italian. If she had thought him attractive before, she now knew it to be undeniably true. He had obviously gone home and changed his clothes for the evening and was now dressed in slim black pants, a crisp, white shirt, and a sports jacket. The color choices was perfect with his dark coloring and brown eyes. While Zelda could easily admire the look of the man, she knew after months of conversing with him that more importantly, beneath how he looked was a kind man, spurred on by an intelligent mind. She could not have been more pleased to accompany him tonight.

“Zelda,” Mateo said as he greeted her with a warm hug and a kiss on each cheek. Stepping back, he said, “You look bellissima!”

Zelda smiled, feeling butterflies in the pit of her stomach. “Thank you, Mateo. You look bellissima, too.”

Mateo laughed. “But Zelda, I am not a she?” he teased.

The dawning of awareness on her face, Zelda immediately corrected herself. “Oh no, Mateo! I am so sorry. You look bello!”

“Grazie,” he laughed again. “Would you like a drink? Maybe a glass of vino? Si?”

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

“Perfetto! Un momento.”

Mateo disappeared into the café and returned moments later with two glasses of wine. “It is the finest Tuscan Merlot. You like this vino, no?” he asked as he handed her the glass.

“Si! Merlot is my favorite.”

Before taking a sip of the velvet textured wine, Zelda immediately inhaled of its rich smell of currants, black cherries, and spices. As she tasted it, the warmth was immediate, invading first her mouth and then traveling to her extremities in quick measure. It was was delicious and an excellent choice for this evening’s event. Zelda smiled at Mateo, who watched her drink the wine as though he’d never seen anyone do so.

After nearly two hours of nibbling on appetizers, more Tuscan Merlot, and flirtatious banter, Mateo guided Zelda to a seat that was only eight rows from the stage in the piazza. Zelda was surprised that they had such a wonderful view and noticed there was a full orchestra seated behind the elevated stage. It appeared that tonight was going to be a spectacular night of music. Nothing in Italy had disappointed her thus far, and she was sure tonight's performance would have the same excellent result.

“Do you know about our musica bel canto?” Mateo asked as they took their seats.

“No, I’m not sure that I do,” Zelda confessed.

The look Mateo gave her was a very proud one, as if he himself had invented la musica bel canto of Italy.

“It is the music of old,” Mateo began. “And it is simply amazing, beautiful. And…how do you say ‘difficile’? It is very difficile to sing. The music began here, in Italy, many, many years ago.”

“I cannot wait,” Zelda said. “It is such a beautiful evening for music beneath the stars.”

“Si, my friend. Please know it is my pleasure to have you here with me beneath this beautiful Italian sky,” Mateo said and his smile grew even larger, displaying both dimples in his cheeks. Never one to disregard an opportunity, he stretched his left arm and laid it across Zelda’s chair and behind her back as he lightly touched her right shoulder with his fingers . The darkness of his brown eyes deepened as he watched a blush suffuse her cheeks in response to his light caress.

Zelda glanced at Mateo beneath golden lashes and smiled as she relaxed into his embrace. The evening was indeed a beautiful one – not too hot nor too cold – and she was very comfortable in the company of the man seated beside her. The Cathedral of Santa Maria was lit up in the piazza and looked more beautiful than ever even though she saw it nearly every single day on her way to and from work. Zelda had fantasized about such an evening with Mateo for some while now, and most certainly, one spent beneath the stars and moon while listening to beautiful Italian music only served to enhance the manifestation of the dream.

A short while later, three young men came on the stage and began to sing. Zelda was immediately mesmerized by the beautiful, harmonious strength of their voices.

Ma n'atu sole

Cchiù bello, oje ne'

'O sole mio

Sta 'nfronte a te

'O Sole Mio was an amazing song with which to open the night’s performance, and Zelda knew that it would always remain a favorite for her after this evening. The song, beneath the Italian skies was exceptional, and the stars and moon shone brightly above as if in full agreement.

The evening continued with more amazing music, and Zelda was in awe of the it all. Her mind and heart opened as her senses were filled in ways of which she’d previously been completely unaware. At long last, the final song of the evening began. Zelda was fully captivated by Puccini's lovely music.

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!

Tu pure, o, Principessa,

nella tua fredda stanza,

guardi le stelle che tremano

d'amore e di Speranza.

****

Nobody shall sleep!

Nobody shall sleep!

Even you, oh Princess,

in your cold room,

watch the stars,

that tremble with love and with hope.

So beautiful were the words and the flow of the music that Zelda felt tears sting her eyes. As she reached up to lightly wipe them, she glanced through thick lashes at Mateo. He was watching her intently, his own eyes nearly liquid in appreciation. He was as moved by the composer's lovely words and music as she.

Unable to resist, Zelda rested a hand on his chest and leaned over to lightly kiss him. Mateo responded warmly, and Zelda could not help but think his lips had been made by the Gods for just such a thing on such a night as this. She shivered as she tasted the faintest hint of Merlot. She moved closer, leaning into his shoulder as if she had known him always. Mateo’s arm pulled her closer still.

Eventually, the evening ended, and the two walked silently with interwoven hands about the piazza until they found a secluded spot where they could sit, not far from the cathedral. Neither was inclined to speak for there was no need for words, only a profundity of emotion. Their senses were reeling with that which artists paint and writers write.

After long minutes of silence, Mateo found his voice and spoke. “Was bellissimo, no? Just as I promised you. Si?” he asked, gazing at her.

“Si, it was beautiful, Mateo. I have no words to describe its beauty or how it made me feel.” Zelda smiled, her eyes still full of the emotion the music had evoked.

Mateo smiled as his brown eyes deepened. He leaned toward Zelda and kissed her with a newfound awareness. Zelda responded in kind, feeling something she’d never felt fill her as Mateo's arms tightened about her and she tasted deeper of the wine he’d drunk.

Finally, Mateo lifted his head to look at her, searching her eyes. “Tesoro mio,” he whispered.

Zelda’s brow rose in question. “Tesoro mio?”

“Si, tesoro mio. You are my treasure, Zelda. A treasure as beautiful as la musica bel canto. I have waited for you always, and now, here you are, in my arms.”

Zelda smiled. Mateo’s words were so lyrical, moving her so much that that she nearly wept. Was this real or was she dreaming? Oh, but if she was dreaming, she hoped never to awaken. “Mateo…” she tried to find words to express herself.

“Si, tesoro mio?”

“Mateo, I was lost, but now it’s as if I’ve come home…to you and to Italy. I am so happy.”

“Si, tesoro mio….si,” Mateo whispered and kissed her again. Both knew that the world was theirs and would never be the same now that they’d found one another.

Without a doubt, love on this fateful, beautiful evening was as wondrous and enduring as the musica bel canto. And just as Puccini had written so many years before, the stars above the two trembled with love and hope anew. L’amore was indeed a rare treasure or tresoro, and two unsuspecting souls were fortunate enough to discover it beneath the Italian skies, brought together by the beautiful musica bel canto.

My heart sings a tune of happiness amidst all things great

As it heralds the dawn of each new day that draws nigh

Along with the roses of summer that grow upon the fence’s gate

Whilst the birds sing tunes so lovely to welcome the day with a sweet cry.

I love the breath and scope of the flower’s fragrance so strong,

The smell of freshly mown grass that lingers in the air,

As in green pastures I roam and lie therein amongst

The flowering bushes, animals, and all of nature so fair.

I’ll whistle a song of love, joy, and purest delight

As I weave along my merry way and explore

With no one and nothing to stop or bar my sight

Until my eyes have feasted on all nature that I so adore.

It is no wonder the delight of summer days well spent

Are amongst my dearest of friends, full of love and utter content.

Zelda had revisited The Prose & Wine café many times – well, eleven times to be exact – over the last four months. The motivation each time she visited was solely the opportunity to hear him read just one more time. She could not remember ever hearing lovelier recitations of any pieces of classical work. She was confident that his voice, laced with a lilting and beautiful English accent, was a gift from the Gods, derived from ancient times. She did not know his real name, because everyone who came to hear the recitations knew him only as The Eloquent Englishman.

She often wondered if anyone on the face of the earth could read Shakespeare, Chaucer, Byron, Keats, or Milton with such beauty and stirring emotion. So enthralled was she by his rendering of any piece of prose, she knew he could have read a children’s book, and she would have been enraptured by the melodic timbre of his voice. Of course, it did help just a wee bit that he was also quite appealing in his appearance. In fact, it helped a great deal and added immensely to his overall allure.

Zelda herself wanted to be a writer. Her innate desire was to write with passion, and she wanted whatever she wrote to be so enchanting that someone would want to read it repeatedly. Moreover, she desired to write something that he would want to read aloud in cozy, dimly lit cafés like The Prose & Wine. Thus, she justified her repeated appearances at the café to hear him read by telling herself she was receiving the necessary inspiration to do just that. However, truth be told, she had fallen, and she had fallen head over heels for a man who read from the Classics quite hauntingly and beautifully.

This evening, she had been tempted to stay home and not visit The Prose & Wine for the twelfth time. She was beginning to feel a bit conspicuous about frequenting the café when he was to be the guest reader. Moreover, she wondered as to whether he had grown suspicious of her true motive. She thought it entirely possible that he could see right through her. However, after a lengthy debate with herself all afternoon, she had ended it by chiding herself for being silly and presumptuous. He surely did not even know she existed, less that she had been to each one of his readings at The Prose & Wine. She was certain her fears were ill based and inconsequential, and so, she had decided to come to the café this evening after all. It would make her very happy to do so, and he would never notice her, of this, she was sure. Moreover and much to her dismay, it would not be long before he would move on from the city of New Orleans, and she would never see him or hear him read again.

This lovely, chilly January evening, he would be reading excerpts from Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake, and Zelda was so excited she could scarce stand it. Sitting alone with a glass of French Merlot on her tiny table, she sipped her wine and looked out the window as snowflakes fell in the soft glow of a street lamp. She sat at her usual table, impatiently twirling her foot as it hung draped across a slender leg. Only about sixteen other people, mostly couples, were attending this evening. Perfect, she thought. She secretly longed to be the only one in the café so that she could enjoy the evening with him solo, but she knew that was impossible. Picking up her wine glass, she took a long swallow of the burgundy Merlot, hoping it would help to quell her impatience and anticipation as she waited.

The lights in the tiny café grew dimmer with the exception of a single light focused on the center of the makeshift stage. Zelda immediately placed her wine glass back on the table and perched straighter on the edge of her seat as she waited. Before long, he walked out from the back of the establishment and took a seat in the lone mahogany Mission Style chair. With a casual nod, he greeted his small audience.

“Good evening, my friends. I should like the opportunity on this beautiful winter evening to warm our minds with some beautiful words written by Sir Walter Scott. The book from which I will be reading is Lady of the Lake, first published in 1810, and the excerpt is from the Canto Fourth.”

He opened the small book in his hands and moments later, the smoothness of his velvet-lined voice soon drifted across the expanse of the small room:

“The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it downs from fears;

The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.”

Entranced, Zelda listened intently to the words wrap fluidly around his eloquent tongue and spill forth into the stillness of the dimly lit room. Despite the silliness of it, all her mind could seem to think upon was the ‘swooning’ that was often detailed in Romance novels she had read when she was younger. She was certain at this moment in time that she might swoon and faint fast away upon the floor of The Prose & Wine, so overcome was she by his lovely recitation of Sir Walter Scott’s prose. Fleeting thoughts of him bent over her lifeless body while attempting to resuscitate her lingered pleasantly in the back of her mind until she forced herself to focus once again on the beautiful words and timbre of his voice as he continued to read.

Thus, the night ensued with readings from various excerpts of the famous poem. Zelda was smitten and did not once stir during the entire time. So moved was she by the lovely poetry that she occasionally lifted a finger to wipe at a stray tear that fell upon her cheek. Ah, but she could live life in such a way, listening to such beautiful recitations by such a one as he.

Once the recitations had ended, the waiter made the rounds, replenishing everyone’s drinks. As the waiter poured a new glass of Merlot for Zelda and then stepped away, she gasped for he was standing there, behind the waiter and directly in front of her small table.

“Good evening,” he said with a brilliant smile and voice of velvet that made Zelda’s breath catch in her throat. “I hope you enjoyed the reading.”

Zelda was unsure how she did so and from where she found her voice, but she returned his smile and managed to answer him without stammering like a timid child.

“Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Sir Walter Scott’s writings are so beautiful.” As are you, she thought.

“Excellent. I am so pleased you liked it.” He looked about the room for a minute before his gaze found hers again. As if unsure what to say, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve noticed that you’ve managed to attend all my readings. I hope that means you have enjoyed them. ”

Zelda felt a blush creep across her cheeks at his words. He had noticed her uninterrupted attendance at his recitations after all. Well, she could only hope that was a good thing. “Yes,” she said. “I have enjoyed each one of them very much, but I think tonight was my favorite.”

For mere moments, the two stared at one another, seemingly frozen in time. Blue eyes met green ones, and in the skip of a heartbeat, connected. Zelda felt a small shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold weather outside.

“May I join you?” he gestured to the empty chair at her table.

“Oh, yes, most certainly! Please forgive my lack of manners,” she said as she quickly moved her wine glass and the copy of Lady of the Lake she had brought with her so that he could take a seat. He motioned to the waiter so that he could order a drink. Zelda watched him from beneath her lashes and wondered if she was in a dream. If so, it was a wonderful dream and she hoped never to awaken.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he told the waiter, motioning to Zelda’s glass of Merlot.

Zelda was suddenly very self-conscious as the waiter brought her companion’s wine. Her slim, woolen skirt seemed shorter and tighter by the minute, and the burgundy turtleneck she had worn seemed to bind her chest tightly, preventing an adequate flow of air. Nervously, she tugged at the hem of her skirt and then fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, glancing up at him to ensure he was, in fact, still there. She refrained from the temptation to pinch herself just to be sure she was awake.

“You like Merlot then?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Why of course he liked Merlot. He had ordered it, had he not? Stupid, silly question and stupid, silly girl! she chided herself.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled, and a big dimple grew in his left cheek. “It’s a favorite. I find it to be such an approachable wine. It is full-bodied and elegant while it pairs with nearly every kind of food but also stands alone quite well. I enjoy the sleek softness of it - fruity, velvety, so rich in nature,” he added as he took a sip from the wine glass the waiter had placed before him.

In addition to softly sensual, like the way in which you partake of its richness, Zelda could not help but mentally note, watching his throat as he swallowed. My God, but had anyone ever been able to describe the deliciousness of a glass of wine or Merlot in such a way? She was sure not. Indeed, the enunciation and the beauty in his description, rhythm, and flow of words were like the velvety, rich smoothness of the wine personified.

He looked at her and extended his hand, “My name is Gawain.”

She responded, captivated by his beautiful smile, with one of her own. “Zelda,” she said and felt the warmth in his firm handshake.

“What a lovely name. Quite unusual though,” he noted.

She nodded. “My mother was a huge fan of Fitzgerald.”

“Ah, yes, I see. Well, it certainly suits you quite well.” He then gave a small laugh before he continued. ”My mother was obviously a fan of the Arthurian legends.” As he spoke, he watched her intently, as though attempting to determine what she was thinking. Knowing exactly what she’d just been thinking about the soft sensuality in the way in which he had described his wine and then partook of it made Zelda blush again as she looked down into her own glass.

“Are you from New Orleans, Zelda?” he asked.

“I am,” she nodded and laughed softly. “Quite thoroughly Southern.”

“Like a Magnolia, I would say. Or perhaps, better yet, a lovely Camellia,” he responded in earnest.

Zelda looked at him, flattered that he would think her as lovely as a Southern bloom as he was certainly a stunning specimen in his own right. Gawain’s green eyes watched her over the light of the table’s candle as she returned their intensity with her blue gaze. The strength of their connection seemed to intensify like the flame of the candle.

“Thank you for the lovely compliment. May I ask where your home is?” Zelda asked and looked down and pretending to remove an invisible piece of lint from the table.

“I’m from across the pond,” he replied. “Cornwall, England to be precise. But I like it here very much and think I might stay a while longer than first planned.”

Zelda looked up as she heard the emphasis in his words. His green eyes continued to gaze at her as if she were the only person in the room, wanting to gage her reaction to the words he spoke.

She suddenly grew a little more confident and gave him a beautiful, warm smile. “That would be wonderful, Gawain. I am your number one fan, I assure you. I could easily listen to you read for endless years. Your voice is so lovely and made for such lovely recitations.”

At her words, he cocked his head a bit and his brow rose in question as he looked at her. “Endless years? I fear you might regret that one, my dear.”

Realizing what she’d said and what he was inferring, Zelda blushed and mentally cursed herself for doing so yet again while also silently answering him. I would never tire of that sensuous, velvet voice of yours - not even in a million years!

He looked down at the table and noted the lovely antique edition of Lady of the Lake that she’d brought with her before glancing up to study her a bit more. After a moment, his voice laced with seriousness, he said, “Why do I feel as if I already know you, Zelda? As if I have always known you?”

In response, Zelda emitted a faint, nervous laugh and quickly took a sip of her wine before she said, “Quite possibly because I’ve been to all your readings, hanging on to each and every word. I adore the Classics and the way in which you read them is so beautiful.” If only you could know how much I adore you, too.

“Yes, quite possibly, but still….one has to wonder,” he said as he reached across the table to lightly touch Zelda’s hand with his own. Unexpected, the touch was like a bolt of electricity. Stunned surprise surfaced in both eyes of green and blue.

Zelda’s breath caught in her throat, as she realized the full importance of her visit to The Prose and Wine this night. She shivered again as she realized that had she not come to this evening reading, there would have been no Gawain at her table, and no such connection between them. Yes, fate was an oxymoron: tricky and wondrous at the same time. She was immensely pleased she had listened to her voice of reason earlier that afternoon and come tonight. For in the briefest heartbeat, Zelda knew the connection between them had already grown with unusual and easy momentum. It was gaining a life of its’ own, much like a newly opened bottle of Merlot being exposed to the air, thereby allowing it to breathe while the fullness embodied therein enhanced with every second it rested. No, she was not dreaming. This was blissful reality. All roads were converging in a way that felt completely natural and completely right tonight. Without a doubt, there was a consequence for every little inconsequential action.

“Shall we do this again, Zelda?” Gawain asked, emboldened by the look in her green eyes.

“Yes, most assuredly.” Zelda quickly replied.

“Well,” he began, but then briefly diverted his gaze to the glass of Merlot before continuing as though he was slightly nervous. “Perhaps we should consider this to be our first date for I find that I am already looking forward to our next one.”

Suddenly, filled with newborn confidence and joy, Zelda lifted her slim hand so that her delicate fingers lay atop Gawain’s hand. It was warm to her touch, and she felt the gentle strength embodied therein. Realizing there were unknown and uncharted depths awaiting discovery within the man seated before her, she felt a thrill of anticipation and excitement. Smiling exuberantly, she answered, “Indeed, nothing would please me more, Gawain. I, too, cannot wait for what tomorrow may bring.”

Life as a woman in nine months will give us

A gift so very precious, blessed and most rare

And the years that follow thereafter bring and bestow upon us

Grace, beauty, and love beyond compare.

The years ahead are filled with many things –

Wonder, heartache, and immeasurable joy.

They bring the fruition of wisdom and love

That only the heart of a child’s parent may know.

And in its turning, perpetual state

Life’s cycle will continue in all of its glory

To create and maintain a passage

Each hour by hour, day by day, and story by story.

Life gives us abundant love and joy

Through times and years of reflection

But it may also give us sadness and despair at times

Ever moving and seemingly slow, amidst the perils of imperfection.

Regardless, in its glory the life we treasure

Will continue the lineage of our life

Spinning and evolving measure by measure

Ever always through the happiness, tears and strife.

What we choose makes all the difference

Be it wisdom, joy, love, or grief

And the days will turn and toil around us

And leave the markings of each life like the lines upon a leaf.

Life is a treasure beyond belief or imagination

Something to which there is nothing beyond compare

And in all its glory and magnificence

One should dance and sing each day, making it quite rare.

For the time of old age will creep upon us far too swiftly

Bringing us full circle amidst change and confusion

Where the child will then be the parent – the one to care

For the elder who begins to live in a world of illusion and delusion.

So sing upon your branch until your breast is full of song

And dance until your feet can no longer move or stand

So that you may enjoy life to its very fullest moment

Marking and fulfilling each day as something perfect and so grand.