La Più Alta Poesia

There he was at the table, seated in a cane chair and casual grey pants, shirt casually unbuttoned and a glass of wine in his hand. Sultry was the afternoon except for an occasional summer breeze – a welcoming reprieve. As the town bustle and chatter filled the air, he turned his wrist and glanced down from behind his shades.

“Sorry I’m late!”

He looked up to see her walking briskly towards him, a smile on her face. He set his glass down, and as she arrived at his table, got up and removed his shades, a smile on his lips.

“Yes, you are.”

She grinned as they both settled into their seats and the waiter came with a menu.

“I’ll have what he’s having, thanks.”

He looked at her half-amusedly as she gave a little sigh and eased into her chair, putting her hair to one side as she did. Then, she turned to him with a twinkle in her eye.

“Well I kept my promise. Happy birthday!”

“Haha, yes you did.”

He took a sip from his glass, his eyes not leaving her face. She reached for her glass with a wicked smile.

“Amici e vino sono meglio vecchi.”

“Ha! Are you saying I’m old?”

“I’m saying we get better with age.”

“Indeed. Speaking of which…”

He caught the scent of her perfume as he leaned towards her. She watched him as he did, until he was just a breath away.

“…I’m better at writing now.”

“Are you.”

In that moment, a breath of wine, his fingers on her chin; a flick of her eyes, then the taste of his lips.

Il bacio è la più alta poesia dell’amore.

The greatest poem indeed.