“Be careful walking home,” stout Patricia told us through a mouthful of affogato. “The wild boar aren’t out much this time of year but watch for the porcospini,” she snickered wickedly, “the porcupines’ll smell the grappa on your lips.”
my head spun in the moonrise, the Dutch husband having poured glass after glass after glass after at first we were consp—hic conspiring to cover the taste of the mushroom soup hic— don’t stand up just yet
eighteen year old legs for ages and a sweet American peregrina sundress stupor dizzy for the first time and feeling the Tuscan drought on my lingua and in my mani
when I tell the story I remember there being two dogs asleep under the table but when they tell the story they insist there was only one