After and before

I slid off in the dark of night, only panicked for a moment that Roberto would forget me in the tiny piazza of Mercatale with all my luggage, at an hour not meant for waking. C. and I waited in the landrover for him with the inside lights on.
I hate saying goodbye. As much as I wanted to go home, all I wanted was to stay and have coffee. And lie in the shade of the olive trees. Eating a fat cornetto and pondering life in a language I only pretend to speak until it was time for dinner and a move to the wide open field for a clear view of the moon and stars.
Longing can be a lovely thing.
The taste of a ripe, deep, dark red cherry as it sits on the tongue, ready to be smashed.

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