“First time in Venice?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m scouting out locations for a new film,” I reply, but then immediately regret revealing too much information. I stand near the rail, glancing at the warehouses on the waterfront as our water bus speeds toward its docking at St. Mark’s Square. I turn back to her. “What about you?”
“I’ve been here several times before,” she says. “But I keep returning.”
“I detect a British accent.”
“London.” She covers her mouth and coughs, and then says, “Born and raised there. And you? American, no doubt.”
“New York. Born and raised there.”
This makes her laugh. For the first time, I take a good look at her. Fortyish, I assume, perhaps a few years younger than me. Tall, slim, with a very pleasant face and brownish hair held tight in a youthful ponytail. Casual slacks and blouse, slightly more elegant than my own blue jeans and T-shirt emblazoned with ‘Italy’ on a tricolor flag. No wedding ring noticeable, which makes me subconsciously cover mine. Then, realizing I’m staring, I turn away, glancing at the other passengers on the morning boat ride.
Read the rest of the story on Libre.
