Writing Happens

Or it doesn’t. Today, it didn’t. So, naturally, I decide to write about it.

To be fair, writing has been happening. In fits and starts, but happening nonetheless. Last weekend, I gave myself permission to ignore the blog and focus solely on one of my unfinished masterpieces, which is now just about finished. I’ve got one, maybe two scenes left to write then, ta da! another one will be in the can.

My “Diva” cycle has evolved in that each exercise now requires more than twenty minutes to produce. That’s against the rules. It hasn’t stopped me from writing about Eleanor Bond; it’s just taking me longer to write each scene. I am trying to retain my view of it as an exercise, knowing that, if I change my perception of it, I may also change my attitude and run the risk of letting it perish in the “in progress” folder. It’s really too promising a piece, though when I’m working on it, I’m still in love.

I also ran into another half-finished series of related scenes in an unrelated order that got me all excited about organizing and completing the full story, so as a creative, I am still “on it”. I’m just not writing about it so much.

My focus has been elsewhere of late. I’ve spent a whole lot of time at the office, mentally and physically, while helping to prep for conferences and workshops. A few weeks ago, Ter said to me, “when are you planning to take a few days off?” and I realized I haven’t had a chunk o’ time since Christmas, so no wonder I’ve slipped off the writerly rail.

In answer to Ter’s question, I’m taking next week off. I can hardly wait. It won’t all be writing, of course, but a darned good chunk of it will be spent with my junky old computer, tying up old projects and delving deeper into new ones (I started a dandy a fortnight ago, then got – big surprise – distracted). Mostly, I anticipate living life at Ru speed rather than warp or Mach or hyperspace speed, and reconnecting with myself for a few days. I actually like me. Spending time with me is a good thing. I must do more of it!

With love,

“The Waiter” (Part III)

He returned from an appointment and found her standing, fully dressed, in the middle of the apartment. “Take me dancing,” she said, firmly.

Astonished, he looked to Mme. Bernier, who shrugged and shook her head. “It’s a miracle,” the old dear declared. “She knocked on my door and demanded that I do her hair.”

She was incandescent once more, shining bright and white beneath her skin. François was completely flummoxed. She had been asleep when he left, breathing so faintly that he worried he would be gone too long. She had gained no weight since his departure, but she was statuesque and simmering, a beauty so intense that he felt the heat where he stood. Her eyes fixed on his, fierce and drowning. “Take me, François.”

He murmured to Mme. Bernier. The old dear nodded and promptly pulled out her knitting. Odette was at the mirror above the washstand, pinning her hat in place. Her hands trembled as she worked, and it was on the tip of his tongue to caution her when she spun on her heel and flashed him her most winsome smile. There was no tremor in her voice.

“Husband, I am ready.”

She insisted on walking along the crooked street to the boulevard and across the square, rather than taking a hansom as he suggested. Odette leaned into him, less for support than from affection, he thought, since she did not drag on his arm as she often did at home. She walked with pride, head up and eyes forward except when she turned to smile at him. “You are the best man I have ever known.”

François smiled back, too anguished to speak. She complimented him and she voiced her gratitude, but she never said the words he yearned to hear. She did not believe in love; he remembered her saying. She did not believe in romance.

If only he had had more time.

They heard the Moulin well before it came into view. More than concertina and violin, the melody was layered with laughter and conversation, punctuated by crystal and crockery jostled on the trays of waiters as graceful as the dancers whirling in and out of their path. Odette quickened her pace, eager to be among them. “It’s been so long,” she said. “Hurry, François, before the music ends.”

He waved to his friends from the café, who recognized Odette and might have speculated amongst themselves though none of them showed her any disrespect. It was good to see them, they were told, clapping shoulders and shaking hands. Odette was kissed more in those moments than she had been kissed in six weeks of marriage. She bloomed from the attention—but she danced only with François.

“Are you happy, ma chèrie?” he asked during a pause for some refreshment.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, glowing with it. She had removed her hat and a curl had come loose to caress her cheek. He smoothed it back, letting his fingertips linger by her ear. Their eyes met and held, and François’ heart slammed against his ribs, then Odette broke the spell with a rueful laugh. “This café au lait is pitiful.”

“I’ll make you a proper one when we get home.”

“The boulangerie is closed.”

“I have a key.” He pictured them stealing into the darkened shop, imagined her perched on a stool while the steamer spat and hissed at his command. She would cross her legs, showing off her ankle in its neat buttoned boot, and cup her chin in her hand to admire his mastery of the machine. You have an artist’s hands, she would say, sighing as if she longed to have him touch her with them. Perhaps he would oblige, beginning with her hair, stroking his fingertips over her cheek and down her throat to the top button beneath her chin. One by one, the pearls would pop. His fingers would slip inside her collar while she untied her ribbons. Her skin would burn icy white in the subdued shadow; her hair tumbling free of its pins and over his wrists. She would stand up and kiss him, her own hands hovering at his waistcoat before she embraced him, before she covered his hands with hers and guided him in close quarters, carving a path through their clothing, their lips ever touching, her mouth open and yearning, his name an impassioned murmur deep within her throat.

“François …”

He opened his eyes. The tumult of the Moulin assaulted him and for an instant his senses were scrambled beyond comprehension. Dazed, he fixed on the eyes fixed on him. Odette, buttoned and beribboned as she had not been in his dream, had abandoned her gaiety to regard him with solemn intent.

“We must go home.”

He bumbled to his feet, muttering apologies as if his thoughts had been plain for her to see. As he rose, the pitiful café au lait sloshed into its saucer, untouched after the first imperfect sip. The cup was porcelain, white dotted with pinprick scarlet. He did not recall the ornamentation on being served, and when Odette stifled a cough with her hand, her glove came away similarly speckled.

“Mon Dieu.”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “I only need to rest.”

He stammered. “Of course, of course.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her in haste toward the exit. On the sidewalk, she made him pause to let her breathe. She struggled a bit, but steadied after a few focused inhales and managed a brave smile.

“There, you see?”

“I should not have brought you here,” he scolded.

“I wanted to come. Please don’t be cross, François. It’s done me a world of good, far more than being cooped up with Mme. Bernier all day. You must bring her to the Moulin when I am gone. She met her husband here, you know. She says she’s not been back since he died, but I’m sure he would not have wanted that. He would have wanted her to dance and make friends, and perhaps to meet someone else. He would have wanted her to be happy.”

François was silent. Negotiating the pavement took all his attention, especially while trying to ignore the point she had begun to make with her uncharacteristic prattling. When he said nothing, she put it so bluntly that it bruised.

“One can only grieve for so long before it becomes self-indulgence.”

* * *

Odette did not join him in the empty boulangerie. He worked the steamer methodically, focused on his hands as they measured the coffee and poured the milk, and when he tried to imagine her perched on the stool with her legs crossed and her chin cupped in her hand, he failed.

Mme. Bernier had put her to bed while he was downstairs. “Is she asleep?” he whispered, on the chance that she was.

Her eyes opened before the old dear could reply. “Not before my café au lait.”

“Madame.” With a sardonic flourish, François presented the cup on its matching saucer.

Odette did not take it. “You’re angry.”

He wanted to deny it, but could not. “Aren’t you?” he asked, instead. He set the beverage on the bedside table.

“I was,” she admitted. “Now I am simply afraid.”

“I am not angry with you, Odette.”

“I know, but I am afraid nonetheless. I don’t want to die while you are angry, François.”

“Then don’t.”

Her dark eyes filled with tears. He turned away, unable to bear it though he knew there was no manipulation. Mme. Bernier startled him at his shoulder. He had forgotten she was there, and realized now that she had become a part of their odd little family, and that her presence was welcome despite his private despair.

She took his arm and led him the few steps beyond Odette’s hearing. “Be angry afterward,” she admonished. “To be angry now does her more harm.”

François merely shook his head, helpless. He had not understood what he felt until Odette put a name to it. Identifying it seemed to empower it so that it swelled in his chest and throat, and threatened to close off his air. Tears stung his own eyes. Mme. Bernier smiled kindly and sent him across the hall to her apartment while she settled Odette for a nap.

to be continued ...

“The Waiter” (Part II)

“I want you to be safe and loved,” he had told her—and he had kept his word.

She had stayed, he surmised, because she had nowhere else to go. Trying to repay him had proved disastrous; she was a poor cook and kept house no better, but she was not lazy. She was inept. Her chief talent lay between the sheets, and he had come from work one night to find her awaiting him in the nude; spectacularly so, he had to admit. A practical man would have taken advantage, but romantic François was still a virgin. Unable to speak, he had quickly removed his coat and draped it over her. She had donned her shift while he was in the lavatory, and though nothing more had been said, François had sensed a relief that surpassed his own.

No one had come looking for her. No one asked after her. The four who had ruined her soon found another to misuse, a girl of sixteen who believed their patter as Odette had done, and who was equally doomed to disappointment. François had not tried to warn her. She would not have listened. “I wouldn’t,” said Odette, when he had proposed to attempt.

“Why not?” he had demanded, and she had laughed before decrying him as a boy with no experience to support his wisdom.

“Of course, that’s not what I think anymore,” she had added, fearful of offending him.

François had reassured her. He had made a point of blending with the scenery and feigning indifference to the conduct of the café’s patrons—particularly the late night miscreants whom Odette had known so well. He liked the music, and some of the bawdy talk amused him, so he had managed to avoid intervening until one girl in particular had unwittingly captured his heart.

“What was it?” she asked him. “Why was I different from the others?”

“It was your accent,” he replied. “Remember, the absinthe made it more pronounced.”

She regarded him doubtfully. François stared back, refusing to bend. Odette held his gaze until she saw the truth behind it, then she dropped her lashes and let the matter rest.

As a surprise, he had taken her dancing on a Sunday afternoon and been surprised, himself. Odette did not know how to dance. She could kick and cavort and flip her skirts above her knees, but a proper waltz was as foreign to her as the receipt for her beloved café au lait. François had promptly enlisted the aid of a musician friend and set about teaching her the steps.

She had loved it.

From there, they had gone dancing every week, fitting it around a picnic or a stroll along the Seine and once, just once, when they returned to their little apartment above the boulangerie, Odette had taken his face in her hands and kissed his mouth so tenderly …

… and then she had fainted at his feet.

The doctor had come at once. Odette had roused before his arrival, but showed an uncommon stubbornness in answering his questions. François had waited in Mme. Bernier’s apartment and the arguing was easily audible through the adjoining wall. Confronted on his departure, the doctor had openly condemned Odette’s past behaviour and brutally recommended that preparations be made.

François had been so stunned that spindly Mme. Bernier had been called upon to steady him. The old dear had then descended the stairs, berating the doctor as she went, and François had crashed into the apartment as if he had been shot in the back. “Did you know?” he had demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Odette had said.

“You knew?” he had cried. “All this time, you knew and you said nothing?”

“Now you know!” she had raged back at him. “Throw me out!”

“I won’t. I can’t!” He had been near tears with shock and shame and an awful wrenching helplessness. “Odette, I love you!”

“Then let me go,” she had said, so coldly that he had known better than she that she was lying.

She had been true about one thing, though. She was grateful to him. She might even have been fond of him, but she did not love him.

* * *

She tired easily. Her appetite waned. She closed herself off from him and spent hours staring out the window, as silent and beautiful as falling snow on a frosty night. Now that her secret was known, her strength was not spent on pretense, and once in a while, she felt well enough for a brief outing. François brought her to the Moulin for café and music. Sometimes she rallied for a dance or two, and in those moments he almost believed that she was deceiving herself, that she was in love with him, her face was so radiant as she spun and swayed in his arms.

Mme. Bernier took it upon herself to mind Madame when François was at work. He came home at night to find them playing cards and drinking tea, but there was something odd about the tableau that he suspected involved the splash of green wool peeping out from beneath the bed.

He quit the café and took an apprenticeship at the boulangerie in order to be at home in the evening. The baker’s daughter taught him to make bread, and Odette observed that Stéphanie was in love with him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, turning red to the tips of his ears. “I am not in love with her.”

“You might be, one day. Aim high, François. You deserve better.”

“Better than the baker’s daughter?”

“Better than me,” Odette said, before she dismissed him in favour of the view.

François had not thought about it overmuch. Idle dreaming had been a luxury in his father’s house and his job at the café had earned him more scorn than money. His brothers all worked in the same factory as the old man, for marginally better wages and far less satisfaction, but François had wanted something different. Not something more, necessarily, but something else, something brighter and more vibrant than industrial grit and numbing routine.

Saying so aloud, however, had been a mistake.

“Your father is as ignorant as mine,” Odette said, sadly.

François wondered if he had misread her and she did not want to go home after all. Then he realized that she would not have married him otherwise. “Do you love your father?” he asked.

“I did. Now I care less about his forgiveness than I do about finding a place in hallowed ground. You have given me that, François. I know that when I am gone, you will see me safely home.”

He had already arranged for a cart. When the time came, he would bear her body back to the man who had raised her, present himself as her husband, and see to it that she was buried with dignity in the churchyard of her childhood. He envisioned it over and over in the night, listening to the irregularities in her breathing as she slept.

Mme. Bernier now sat with him of an evening. She had offered to come at dawn, while François was occupied at the boulangerie, but Odette slept well into the morning and he was able to be with her when she woke. Stéphanie had badgered the baker into acquiring a steamer; without it, François feared his wife might not wake again, he was so convinced that the lure of his café au lait was the thing that roused her. There were no more outings, no strolls along the Seine or picnics in the park. Mme. Bernier insisted that she walk around the apartment, but she gradually grew too weak to manage even that. Standing became a rare triumph. François was obliged to carry her to the lavatory, where Mme. Bernier shooed him out for modesty and aided her in his place.

“She does not produce much,” the old dear confided.

“She does not consume much,” François replied.

She enjoyed the smell of bread baking, but refused to eat it. Each day, François made a baguette for her and she always gave it to Mme. Bernier. Stéphanie, who made the best sweet pastry in the neighborhood, tried to tempt her with beignets and frangipane, to no avail. François ate them instead, at her behest. “You must eat,” she reminded him. “It does me no good for you to starve.”

Their early days together had been awkward, but not difficult; not like this. They had been strangers then. Conjuring something to say had been a strain for entirely different reasons. At the time, he had been mystified and a little wounded, but now he understood her reticence. She had hoped to spare him by keeping distant. She had spoken of leaving but lingered longer and longer, until they were strangers no more and had become friends, one in love and one afraid to die alone.

“If you had known,” she said one night, “would you still have saved me?”

François did not hesitate. “I would.”

She lay on her side, facing him in his chair, her hand tucked between her cheek and her pillow, her hair a tumbling stream of curls over her shoulder. She burned less brightly these days. Her eyes were darker and her face more aggressively sculpted, but she was still hauntingly, desperately, beautiful.

She held him in her gaze for a long, silent moment. He thought that she might say it at last, but she sighed and closed her eyes as if she could not bear to look at him.

to be continued ...

Diva VIII

A round of applause broke along with the kiss. Too mortified to acknowledge it, Ellie opened her eyes on Dane. “That wasn’t in the script,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt.

He smiled. “I was improvising.”

She was about to inform him that one didn’t improvise in the movies when Hamilton called for a lunch break. “Take it offset,” he suggested as he passed.

Dane’s smiled widened. “Shall we?”

Ellie didn’t know what to say or how to act. That she was attracted must have been obvious, and it would have been fine had he chosen to test her in a less public forum. She normally spaced her romances a few months apart—a sobering truth, now that she thought of it. She had dumped Tony the night before starting this film, less than a fortnight ago.

Was she building a reputation?

Whatever Dane saw in her eyes, it rattled his confidence. The smile vanished, replaced by a boyish uncertainty beneath the overdone-for-the-camera makeup. He dropped his lashes and stepped back to clear her path.

Ellie braved a glance around the set. The cast and most of the crew had taken Hamilton’s direction and departed for lunch. The remaining few were focused on their equipment—lights and cameras—trying to ignore the awkward moment in their midst.

Why the hell had the director chosen to shoot this scene first?

“The fact is,” Dane said, solemnly, “I’ve wanted to kiss you from the day we first met.”

Ellie’s heart thumped clumsily in her chest. She said nothing, and after a few beats, Dane continued.

“I thought—hoped—you might have felt the same way.”

She was completely unprepared for him to lift her hand to his lips in a Shakespearean plea for forgiveness, and she was so befuddled by the whole incident that honesty seemed the only sure way out of it.

She heard herself say, as if at a distance. “You were right.”

“The Waiter” (Part I)

“You cannot give her that,” said Mme. Bernier. “She can barely take my soup.”

François was not surprised. Few could take Mme. Bernier’s soup. He moved to the bed by the window and placed a gentle kiss on Odette’s forehead.

Her lashes fluttered like startled birds. François whispered. “I’ve brought you a café.”

She relaxed instantly into a smile. Mme. Bernier hurried to prop her upright, stuffing the pillow between her shoulders and the iron bedstead. François proffered the cup he had procured from the boulangerie downstairs and Odette’s pale hands closed about it. “I saw you in the light,” she murmured.

He tried not to appear chilled by her statement. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Odette was breathing the steam from her coffee, her eyes half-closed in blissful oblivion. At the prompt, her brows lifted inquiringly and François gestured to the figure waiting by the door.

“This is Père Emil.”

Her eyes widened. “So soon?”

François hastened to reassure her. “No, no, chèrie. He has come to make you my wife.”

“Oh!” It was Mme. Bernier, exclaiming into her hands. Odette said nothing. She sat frozen, staring at the priest with the café forgotten in her hands. Père Emil drifted closer, his face as kind and earnest as François remembered from his boyhood. Odette was too baffled to protest and gave him her hand when he offered an open palm of his own.

“Mademoiselle, it is my deepest pleasure to meet you.”

Her dark eyes sought François. He smiled nervously. He had wanted to marry her from the moment she had entered the café on the arm of one of her painter/poets, the dissolute foursome who had shared her affection at the expense of one true love. She had been beautiful then, young and vivacious, the muse they had named “Anise”. So many nights she had spent, kissing and carousing in the company of pretentious imposters who had talked of holding a salon to rival the Impressionists yet produced not a single painting among them. She had posed for them, she said, though the only work François had seen of her was a sketch by Auguste Renoir that hung now on the wall of this tiny apartment. “She is too melancholy,” the artist had lamented, but François had emptied his pockets to persuade him, and Odette’s smile at his persistence had changed the master’s mind.

He loved her now more than ever. “Please,” he whispered. “Marry me, Odette.”

Mutely, with tears in her eyes, she nodded.

François stood by the bed. Mme. Bernier stood as a witness. The café au lait grew cold on the nightstand. Père Emil spoke with reverence to the sanctity of marriage and waited patiently while vows were repeated first by the groom, then by the bride. Neither of them wept, but Mme. Bernier sobbed for both of them.

François had bought a ring at the pawnshop; a plain gold band, it was a perfect fit. “You know me so well,” Odette remarked as it slid into place on the appropriate finger.

The priest pronounced them man and wife. “You may kiss the bride.”

They looked at each other. François swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to budge. Odette rescued him by embarking on a mild coughing fit that required the aid of the cold café au lait and sent Mme. Bernier scurrying to her own apartment for more soup. Père Emil produced a pocket kerchief which he inspected closely when it was returned.

It was dry.

“Merci, mon Père,” François said on seeing him to the door. “I am in your debt.”

“What shall I say to your mother?”

“Say that I shall be home for Easter.”

The priest inspected the boy’s face as intently as he had inspected the kerchief. François gave him nothing; his countenance remained resolute despite the probing gaze. Finally, with no further word, Père Emil took his leave.

Mme. Bernier returned with a chipped tureen in her hands and half a baguette tucked under her arm. “For your supper. It’s not much, but I wasn’t expecting a wedding.” She carried both to the table, then frowned at the bride. “You will eat, mademoi—madame. Your husband will make sure of it.”

Odette was contemplating her wedding ring and did not reply. François escorted the old dear to the door, sent her on her way with consent to look in tomorrow, then bolted the door behind her. He lingered for a moment, his brow resting against the wood, until Odette’s voice crossed the short distance between them.

“My father can hardly refuse me now.”

“He will not dare,” François said, quietly.

Silence fell. When François faced the room at last, his wife was staring out the window. He had not imagined she could become more beautiful, yet illness had made her incandescent. She burned by the glass, white skin and dark hair, shadows etched, starkly alluring, in the bones of her face. He longed to kiss those bones, to caress them with his lips as he had only dreamed of doing because she had come to him ravaged and unwilling despite the offer she had made. Hoping to make her love him first, he had declined and now it was too late.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“Paris,” she answered. She glanced at him. “And you?”

“I see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She made a sound that should have been laughter but emerged as something else. “You have been too good to me, François. I do not deserve your kindness.”

“It is no kindness.” He moved from the door, stepping softly on the bare floorboards. Arriving at her bedside, he put out a hand. She gave him hers. He brought it to his lips and she flicked her forefinger at his moustache. Duly dissuaded, he sat on the bed and held her hand instead.

“I won’t be too long,” she promised.

He smiled. “Take as long as you like.”

Odette tipped her head against the bedstead and sighed. “I would take forever if I could.” Her gaze sharpened, startling him with its fervour. “I would take you, François.”

He tried to make a jest of it. “Were you not listening to Père Emil? You have taken me.”

“I thought you were a boy,” she went on as if he had not spoken. “The others, Henri and Georges and that ridiculous Jean-Claude, I thought they were men, but they are the boys and you are the man. I see that now. I see everything so clearly, François. So clearly. Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me?”

“Ma chèrie,” he said gruffly, “you must forgive yourself.”

Fresh tears rose in her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment more, then looked quickly away, through the window to the gaslit streets of Paris.

“You left home for love,” he reminded her.

“I left one fool for another and became a fool myself.”

“Am I a fool, Odette?”

She blinked and glanced back at him, a corner of her mouth curling in a reluctant smile. “The biggest of them all,” she said, and he laughed aloud because the joy at her teasing was greater than any offense he could have taken.

to be continued ...

“The Waiter” (Preface)

It’s been a while since I posted a serial. Seems like forever since I finished a story short enough to be posted in eight segments or less. (I tried twelve, once, but it went on too long.) Thanks to my older older brother, who expressed some interest with an exercise I posted in 2013, “The Waiter” starts tomorrow and runs to the last Saturday in June.

Endings are not my strength. I can’t even say good bye to my co-workers when I leave for the day; I quietly shut my door and slip away when no one is looking. No wonder I have so many half-finished projects. At some point in our relationship, I quietly shut the door and slip away.

A good story, however, and/or a strong character will insist that I complete a piece—and that’s what happened with tomorrow’s offering. When I wrote both the initial exercise and its follow up, I approached it through the heroine’s eyes. Like her, I disregarded the boy who fell in love as a lightweight, sweet enough but lacking the depth that makes a hero interesting.

Wrong-o. Turns out that he has as much or more depth than any of my more compelling heroes. I am learning that a short story is but a few scenes from a character’s life. The time that François spent with Odette was a turning point in his existence. He has no desire to tell any more than that, and so I wished him well and let him go … but not before he insisted on having his say.

Enjoy.

Diva VII

(Postcards from abroad)

Vera,

Europe is definitely better travelled by train. So far I’ve only seen France through the window, but it’s nothing like home. Everything is so old, and there’s a strange fatigue as if the countryside itself is still recovering from the war. People are friendly, though I’d be completely lost without Dane. He speaks four languages, all of them Romance (wink). It helps that he’s been here before; his parents sent him on a tour of the Continent instead of university and he couldn’t wait to return. Don’t expect us back any time soon, ha ha.

Will write when we reach Paris.

Love, Ellie

Dear Vera,

Spent two days and too much money in Paris. Now back on the train and writing from the dining car. Last night’s dessert was strawberries and champagne. You wouldn’t believe the power in those little bubbles! American champagne is soda pop by comparison. I think I said something stupid under the influence but Dane won’t tell me what it was.

He’s spoiling me rotten, I’ll be quite impossible when I get back to work. If you see Bernie, say nothing!

A bien tôt, Ellie

Dear Vee:

The Alps are amazing. I’ve never seen anything like them. Switzerland is far happier than France. The air is fresher and the fatigue I sensed in northern France is lacking. Did the Nazis not get this far? I don’t remember and I don’t want to look dumb by asking anyone here.

We have one night in a hotel at Lake Geneva—isn’t that where Frankenstein was written? My ignorance is showing more and more as this trip progresses. I could stay here forever and still learn something every day.

Dane sends his love. He doesn’t miss Hollywood at all.

Kisses for now, Ellie

Dearest Vee:

All roads might lead to Rome, but it’s easy to get lost once you arrive. There are so many museums and galleries and fountains and statues! I was quite dizzy at the end of our first day, though that may have been the amount of wine I consumed. It’s practically all they drink in Italy. If it’s not wine, it’s espresso. Dane has taught me to say “I love you” in every language he knows, including the fourth one that doesn’t actually use words (think about it).

Venice is our next stop. He says it’s more romantic than Paris or Rome. I’m just worried that I’ll throw up in the gondola when he takes me for a ride!

Wish me luck, Ellie

Vee:

Dane asked me to marry him.

I said no.

Be home soon.

Ellie.