Otea takes her place at the table. She finds her way by feel. And she calls us back. 

Aperitivi and fritto misto are spread before us. Citrus zest. Salt crystal. Sea fruit. This is the fat, full promise of the buona sera. The hour of miele. The satisfying clasp of a cigarette case clicking open and shut.

We don’t know how long she’ll linger. Being here beside her feels like following the sillage of a scent. The trace of a family line that flickers. The faint pink lipstick on a cocktail coupe. The echo of someone’s laughter who was just here, then there, then gone. 

The lines she leaves flower and fan out in all directions. These flickers are a little bit feral and they are free-wheeling good fun. She is forever our fiammifiera. The secret spark that sends us. 

She is just ahead. And we’ll follow her anywhere.