#57
When she paid the old woman for the peaches, she spoke Venetian.
Me: how did you know she’d understand you?
Her: all the old ones do.
Left over’s from an age of the republic that not even the old woman was around for.
The pine forest was littered with needles which made walking to the beach, silent and scented. We laid on towels from Turkey, because they look nice, and ate the peaches, juice dripping on the blue and red design.
I slip on the water shoes and ease into the sea, over the slippery rocks while she stays back, reading. The water is a blue that is maybe the color of the eyes of a dog. Small fish scurry away from my legs. I push off the rocks and swim out as far as I can, as far as I dare.
At the far end of the beach, clothes are optional. I mention this, but it’s in one ear, out the other, or else, it’s ignored.
Her: it’s just a bunch of old people.
I didn’t know. It’s my first time here, this eastern European seaside beauty of a town. I fall asleep under the shade but wake up to the smell of a man walking past selling freshly fried donuts.
Me: give me some coins.
Her: get two.