Paisley Fabric, Satchel

"I am stealing away on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t tell a soul I am leaving. Not even the little wolf dog who stands guard outside the macellaria, awaiting a wafer thin slice of something from someone. I leave as the sun breaks and its burst beams from the center of my chest. A bouquet I’ll keep for myself. I follow the ferrovie to Firenze. I’ve spent more for a compartment. So I can slide the door shut and slip in beside the window. Gold and olive roll by. I lie down in those fields with my eyes and I am not a stranger. At a nameless station just outside the city, a man enters the compartment. He has eyes like layered leaves—yellow and green like the land. The silence between us becomes a smile. As we near our stop, the train shifts and his satchel comes loose from above. Papers with red pen marks spill across my lap. A letter with more stamps than I’ve ever seen. He asks for permission and reaches across me and tucks the envelope down into his pocket. The inside of his jacket is silky and swirling with shapes. They look like tear drops cried by someone in a place that’s far away."
- xo, Otea