Florence Waited

The silver shoes made her feel elegant, not a dumpy fifty-ish American tourist on her first trip anywhere in over twenty years. She had dressed in a plain beige knit top and pants she’d found in her mother’s closet when she died. Julie’s hair was brownish-grey, chopped at shoulder length; she wore no make-up. It was not the correct outfit to show off stylish footwear. She wished she’d worn the silky blue dress from her dream, but Julie forgot all that when she buckled the silver shoes.

Julie stood and turned slowly. The sprawling Piazza, buzzing with people, was overshadowed by its massive stone arch with the inscription: ‘The ancient center of the city restored from age-old squalor to new life.’ 

Julie repeated the words.  “New life, indeed.”

The crowds moved in all directions like scattered beads escaping from a broken necklace. Children, men, women, and dogs surround her, all rushing somewhere. No one noticed Julie.

Across the Piazza, Julie heard a group of musicians begin to play a tune. The song drifted toward her clearly, silencing the raucous sounds of traffic and people and making them disappear. It was a tarantella. She became a willing captive to the melody, indifferent to escape. And though Julie could not see the musicians, she slowly danced in her silver shoes toward the music.