Italy has a secret.
In the street filled with people, in the thick heat of summer, you can see her walking through the crowd. She strolls on the cobblestone roads with a small smile, for she is so very aware of the hidden fact. She might have a gelato cone to distract her from the fact that there is nothing else to occupy her hands and mouth. It keeps her from being jealous of the lovestruck couples in the street. For surely ice cream is sweeter than any man's lips.
But at times she's not so sure.
Especially when the ice cream melts and leaves a sticky mess on her hands. It is said that men don't melt, even when it rains.
Then again, stranger things have happened.
Her sunglasses shade her eyes and make her feel like it isn't as personal when a man looks her up and down with his elevator eyes. He scans her from ground level to the top in a few short seconds and her gut twists uncomfortably within her. The sunglasses remain on her face, even if the building cast a dark shadow on her.
Because if he doesn't see her eyes, he doesn't truly see her.
She passes a bookstore and immediately walks in. The smell of new words hit her and she decides to stay a while. No matter that she can't understand the syllables on the shiny covers.
At least the smell is familiar.
She tires of not being able to understand the words so she continues on her way, taking in the music played by the old man on the street. He woefully plays his instrument and looks at the people passing by through his thick glasses. His face shows nothing. His emotions only ride on the notes he plays.
How she wishes for her piano.
When the streets loose thier draw and the shops have been explored she begins the walk home, passing the buildings, statues and cathedrals that made her jaw drop when she first arrived. Their new familiarity allows her heart to settle.
Becoming friends with a city is quite the adventure.
She is content.