Florence Waited

“Buongiorno, madam.”

“Buongiorno. May I have a caffé Americano?”

“Certamente, madam,” said the waiter.

“Isn’t this sunlight astonishing? It makes everything shimmer, doesn’t it?” The woman speaking from an adjacent table grinned at Julie like a fool.

She ignored her. People usually wanted something, and Julie had given enough. The coffee arrived with biscotti.

“So, where are you from?” asked the woman.

The woman was clearly American, about Julie’s age, she guessed, with brown eyes and a thick waist. She had corkscrew grey hair and an embroidered skirt, probably a refugee from a commune.  

The woman waited for Julie to answer, “New Jersey.”

“Hey, I’m a Jersey girl too. I’ve been here for a week with my husband, but he left this morning to return to work. I have four more days.” She used lots of hand gestures. “How long will you be in Florence?” 

 “Ten days,” said Julie evenly.

“I love Florence. I’m an art teacher in Brooklyn. Are you in the arts?”

Julie took a sip of her coffee before turning toward the woman. “No.” She had a flash of herself at twenty, showing one of her paintings at her school’s art show. “Almost. It was always my plan, but life got in the way, or rather, other people’s lives.”

“Life has its twists and turns.” 

The woman had a calmness about her that Julie liked. She heard herself continuing to talk as if she was no longer in control. “My parents needed a caregiver, and none of my siblings were as free to help as I was.”

“Are they traveling with you?” asked the woman.

Julie looked away; her voice cracked slightly. “No. My father died sixteen years ago, and my mother passed earlier this year. It took me a while to regroup.” Julie turned to the woman. “So, here I am, twenty-some years late, to be inspired by Firenze.”

“Florence waited.”