Creative Writing: The Perfect Day in Italy

I'm woken from my Lambrusco-induced sleep by the sound of Lorenzo attempting to balance a tray filled with cappuccini, cream-filled brioches, and hand-squeezed spremuta from Sicilian blood oranges as he walks precariously towards me. The juice looks like a sunset in a glass and he looks like a dream. I'd found him the other day in the middle of the Mediterranean, I was swimming and he was shirtless fishing, the latter of which is my new favorite hobby. Lorenzo doesn't speak English, which suits him perfectly seeing as he wants to do everything but talk. He has eyes the color of home, the dark forest green of pine trees that cover Alberta's Rocky Mountains, with flicks of amber as if someone had splashed a bit of Italian sunshine into them. It's the height of summer in Italy, the air thick with a certain kind of wanting that emerges at this time of year. I'm languishing in a morning stupor, the cotton sheets draped on me and off the Californian king. Lorenzo has drawn the bath on the veranda, so I take my brioche in one hand and him in the other and step out into a cloudless blue sky with the rainbow colours of Positano beneath us. We spend another hour soaking in the bubbles and each other until the church bells start to chime below us, signalling that we are already late to our lunch date in town. I throw on my favorite white cotton dress from Antica Sartoria and strappy sandals that are completely impractical for Positano's winding cobblestone paths. He's in full white linen, the kind of outfit that every woman adores but so few men can actually pull off unless they're born by the sea. My still-wet hair is hanging down my back and I can feel the tickle of the beads of water as they slip down my spine. The mid-day sun will dry it in no time so we head out, Lorenzo's bronzed arm hanging lazily over my shoulders. Lunch is at Chez Black and I order spaghetti ai ricci di mare because they bring it in an dish shaped like a sea-urchin and I've always loved the spectacle it creates as the waiter lifts the cover. I practically drown myself in the fizzantino and am nursing a euphoric drunkenness when our group decides to take a boat out for the afternoon. We laze the day away on the yacht between swims and impromptu kisses while the sun scorches the coastline. Back at the apartment, Lorenzo puts himself to work on dinner as I wash the sea and the day away. I leave the salt in my hair though, because nothing can imitate the waves from a day spent in the water. Candles light the entire terrazzo, competing with the stars on this clear night. There's something about the way that Italian men look at you isn't there? As if there is nowhere else they would rather be than caught in a moment with you. Lorenzo is tracing Italian words on my back, telling me to guess each one. Bellissima. Perfetta. Ti voglio. I intentionally get the last one wrong because I know if I say it aloud, the night of dancing that awaits us will never come to fruition. I pull him out into the midnight and we make our way towards the music and the stars.

This is part of the April #DolceVitaBloggers Linkup.


Past #DolceVitaBlogger Link-Ups:
​#DolceVitaBloggers Linkup - #4 March 2018 - International Women's Day
​#DolceVitaBloggers Linkup - #3 February 2018 - A Love Letter to Italy
#DolceVitaBloggers Linkup - #2 January 2018 - Favourite Italian City
​#DolceVitaBloggers Linkup - #1 December 2017 - 'The Italian Connection

Read ten very short stories which are now available as a cute collection in my first eBook: This Sweet Life. You can download it for FREE in my store! Or read the included pieces as individual posts:


Creative Writing: Call Me Baby
​Creative Writing: The Butterfly Effect
​Creative Writing: The Letter R (Explicit)
​Creative Writing: Dear Italy (A Love Letter)
Creative Writing: Airport Arrivals
​Creative Writing: Tanqueray and You
​Creative Writing: A Thousand Lives
​Creative Writing: A Sunday Kind of Love
​Creative Writing: Perfect Strangers in Switzerland
​Creative Writing: Rooftops and Rome
​Creative Writing: The Morning After in New York
​Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily