by Marian Allen
She sounds dull, but you could be wrong.
She may have been to Florence. She might have strolled the narrow streets of that golden city, browsing leather-goods shops until she found the right tooling, the right gilding. She might have watched a craftsman emboss patterns on brown leather, each one the same, each one unique. She may have met his eye. Perhaps they shared a smile.
Maybe she placed her order and wandered onto the Ponte Vecchio, pressing through crowds to buy chains and hoops of gold, then returned to find the craftsman had added an extra fillip of filigree, "For your smile, Signora."
Maybe she sat in her hotel's courtyard until the moon was high, listening to olive trees rustle in a pine-scented breeze, drinking red wine and tracing the gold impressions, glinting by starlight, on the front of her brown leather purse.
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