Sitting on the floor chatting while it was raining outside, I found out that she is a storyteller. But, to be honest, I’ve always known that. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt, with just a little bit of make up, but her lips resembled a strawberry that’s waiting to be eaten. She took off her high heels and was now sitting barefoot passionately recounting the way her life use to be before, and the way it was…is–today. Because she used to live two lives, and perhaps is about to begin a third one. She talks very much and always smiles, and when not talking she just takes a sip of wine, which is her passion, “That’s what I discovered when I moved to Italy.”
And I like her way of speaking, she tells about things two times on purpose, uses redundant language, she skips articles; and I gladly correct her, I do it very tenderly, and she never gets offended.
“You want to see the suitcase!?”, she asks me and already gets up without waiting for my answer.
The case is the one by which she brought with herself to Italy. She guards it as if it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“You know how much it weighed when I landed at Malpensa!?”, she shouts from another room.
“And what did they tell you at the check-in?”, I ask.
“Nothing. I told them that inside is my whole life”, she answers and pulls out from the suitcase a black-and-white photo.
“This is me, 11 years ago, just arrived. I still have that white skirt”
We look at the photo and then I look up and observe her. She seems nostalgic.
“Are you okay?”
She sighs but inevitably smiles, gets up and goes out on the terrace…I follow her and she rests her head on my shoulder. I always admired her natural way of expressing feelings. She is the type of a person who kisses you and hugs you all the time.
“I love you, you know that?”, she says looking at the lighted square.
“I love you, stranger.”