222

I am in Milan, alone and waiting for a plate of Chicken Limone. I am wearing the most beautiful dress I had ever seen, had ever worn and felt against my skin, hugging my physique. It is black and embroidered with an organic rainbow of flowers and sprouts from my chest to the very bottom of the skirt. The first time I tried it on, I was much younger and naive. I was prom dress shopping with my mom at Macy's. I fell headfirst in love with every stitch, but it was hundreds of dollars.

The dress and I met again tonight, many years and lonesome nights and lovers later. The night and the twinkling, conversing stars flood the terrace I am dining on. They tell each other I look beautiful tonight from lightyears away.

Thank you, sweetness.

I sip a sweet white wine and it drips onto the rose embroidered on my dress, soaking through it, the skin covering my sternum absorbing the sugars and grapes and hands of the man who squished them. My heels are off and my the bottoms of my feet and my unpainted toes brush against the cobblestone that is still a little damp from the sun shower earlier in the day.

There is a small group of string instrumentalists and an accordion player in the corner behind me. Their song caresses my face with a rough, but gentle hand. It was written for me by someone who pines for me. I will be coming home soon, but the stars, the strings, the garden on my gown, and the potion I'm sipping on have a few more stories to tell me.