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It was precisely like a honeymoon because we couldn’t get enough of each other.
I was like a teenager. I looked at her legs, and I got hard. She saw me buttoning my shirt, and she wanted me to take it off. This meant that we missed breakfast and got out of our room at noon. We wandered through Florence, the city unfolding around us like a painted masterpiece come to life.
We had lunch at Trattoria Mario, a lively, no-frills spot near the Mercato Centrale that deliciously smelled like simmering ragù and freshly baked bread. The eatery was packed as it was the kind of place where strangers squeezed into communal tables, passing plates and exchanging stories as if they’d known each other forever.
The menu was handwritten on a chalkboard, and it changed daily based on what was fresh.
Elysa let me order.
“It’s partly because you seem to know the waiter and partly because I trust your taste.” She told me.
A bottle of Chianti was delivered first, deep ruby in color, swirling easily in the glass. Then came the food—pappa al pomodoro, thick and rich, the tomatoes bright with basil and good olive oil for her, and tagliatelle al ragù, the pasta golden and perfectly coated in a slow-cooked meat sauce for me.
"If I lived here, I'd have to walk everywhere just to make up for this." She patted her stomach.
I smirked over my wine glass. "We’ll find other ways to burn calories.”
She flushed.
“But first dessert.”
She groaned, but when the tiramisu arrived—layers of espresso-soaked savoiardi, mascarpone, and cocoa dusted just right—she didn’t argue, and we fought over the last bite.
Our conversation flowed effortlessly—light,playful, filled with stolen glances and lingering smiles. The heaviness of earlier had passed, leaving only the simple joy of being together. It felt easy, unforced… liberating.
After lunch, Elysa insisted on a long walk, claiming that if we didn’t, she’d have to unbutton her shorts because she was so full.
“I can help you take them off,” I offered salaciously.
“As much as that holds appeal, I need to walk before anything else goes inside me.”
I laughed at that and wrapped my hand around hers.
We walked past Piazza della Signoria, where tourists tilted their heads back to admire the towering Palazzo Vecchio, its medieval facade proudly standing against the sky. In the shade, artists sketched, their hands swiftly moving over the paper, capturing the city's timeless beauty. By the Fountain of Neptune, lovers lingered, as if the world around them had paused just for them.
At the Accademia, I watched Elysa stare up at David, her head tilted in quiet reverence. I had seen the statue before—I walked past it a dozen times on business trips, never stopping long enough to appreciate it. But with her, I did.
At the Duomo, we climbed Brunelleschi’s dome, our breath coming faster with every step. When wefinally reached the summit, Florence stretched out before us, the terracotta rooftops and rolling hills bleeding into the horizon.
"This"—Elysa gestured at the endless expanse—"is why people fall in love with Florence."
I didn’t look at the city. I looked at her.
"I can see why," I murmured, my heart so full of love for my wife that I thought it would burst out of my chest.
THIRTY
Elysa
The next day, we left Florence behind and drove to the Tuscan countryside.
Dante had rented a cherry-red Alfa Romeo Spider—a curvy and playful convertible built for the thrill of the drive. The engine purred as he shifted gears, and the warm wind whipped through my hair as we sped past rolling vineyards and golden fields.
“This is ridiculous.” I laughed as he took a turn a little too fast, the tires hugging the road like a lover.
Dante smirked, one hand effortlessly on the wheel. “Ridiculously fun, you mean.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.