Florence Waited

She could see for miles in every direction to the rolling green hills that surrounded Florence and the Arno River. She spotted tourists who’d scaled the less arduous Campanile, not as high as the Duomo deck. They had a vista of the Dome and fewer steps to climb, but she preferred her loftier view of the city. The tile roofs on homes and buildings at a hundred angles spilled across the terrain below, and the forested hills off in the distance were alternatingly shrouded in mist and lit brightly by the sun. 

Julie took dozens of pictures from each side of the platform, forgetting her fear of heights, crowds, and everything else. She took photos for fellow tourists, and they took pictures of her. She took selfies. Julie was exhilarated. She was alive. She was strong, confident, and tall, standing on the top of the Duomo. 

The wind was brisk on the Duomo despite the cloudless sky, and it grabbed everyone’s words and tossed them across the tops of the roofs of Florence. There were dozens of conversation fragments aloft in random scraps like mad actors in a play. 

Julie laughed and cried. An hour later, she started down the hundreds of steps to the street. When she reached the bottom, she treated herself to a chocolate gelato. In the evening, she’d invite Lucy for a Florentine Steak at the Trattoria near the St. Regis.

As Julie strolled back to her hotel, something shiny in a shop window caught the light, and she stooped to get a better look – silver shoes, delicate with high spindly heels and narrow ankle straps. They were perfectly proportioned and flawless and impractical. Julie found herself inside, trying on the shoes warmed from the sun in seconds. They fit perfectly, and she bought them without hesitation for 300 Euros pulled from her fanny pack.

“I’m an idiot! These are dancing shoes!” she thought.  

Julie could hear her mother’s voice. “You’re reckless for wasting so much money on such gaudy shoes.” 

As she passed through the Piazza, Julie spied an empty table at the café, and she sunk into a chair, dropping her shopping bag, which ripped open. Her beautiful silver shoes bounced in opposite directions over the rough cobblestones. She fell to her knees to grab each one quickly as if thieves were in wait to steal them before settling breathlessly into the chair with a shoe cradled in each arm. The waiter approached for her order. 

“Buon Pomeriggio, madam. You were here yesterday, no?”

“Buon Pomeriggio. Si, I was.”

“What can I serve you today?” He leaned toward her, bowing slightly.

“May I have a caffé Americano?” Julie asked.

“Belle scarpe, argento.” He reached out and almost touched one of the shoes she held.

“Yes, I just bought them. I’m not sure why.”

He clasped his hands. “You must go dancing!”

“Yes, I must,” said Julie. She considered one shoe, then the other.

“Please, put them on so I can see how they look,” said the waiter, winking at her.

Julie did as he requested while he left to retrieve her coffee.