Rome, March 1889.
I do remember her figure: an almost diaphanous complexion, blooming beauty in spite of her young age. But I remember especially her eyes, neither sapphires nor emeralds, perhaps aquamarines.
A timid glance, a word or two exchanged as we walked by each other, clandestine cards written in haste, were our daily routine.
One day we met in the empty corridor, our footsteps the only noise along with the rain, lightning drawing long shadows on the floor.
Blushing modestly she took my hand, walked me towards the window, chaste and passionate she kissed me, holding me close, then she left, after a last long glance.
Our encounters grew infrequent, she would change direction and pace on seeing me, one day she was gone.
I kept her handkerchief (she had dropped it that day) as long as it smelt of her, then even that last memory died away.
I came across her, some time had passed, in Piazza di Spagna, she was by herself, I was not.
«I’ve waited for you, you know?» I said.
«And now?»
«It’s too late.»
I hasty bid farewell and turned away from her forever.
«You!» she cried sobbing, her face perhaps strewn with tears.

To Flavia

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