Genova, Tia, Rain

Saturday. Genova again. Rain all afternoon, the kind that makes the stones darker and turns every plan into `”we can still go if you want.”` Tia and I still went. We ended up under an awning eating focaccia and talking about people neither of us will care about in five years with the absolute seriousness they deserve today. She asked whether I ever wish she lived in Milano. Yes, obviously. But I also think part of why we work is that she isn’t woven into every day. She doesn’t know the school version of me or Saturday-night Milano by default. I arrive here and she gets the edited highlights, except then she asks enough questions to recover the deleted scenes.

Remember me, Eclipse.