Abitazione

Mandarin oils, and olive soap, the scents of Florence.

Are these the smells Botticelli knew?

Iza sunk deep into her bath.

She felt fresh, emerging from her own shell.

The renaissance never smelt so good or walked so tall.

Vincent has been working on his script for a long time. A love story. Simple on paper, complicated in reality. ’Twas ever thus”. Eurgh. His wife suggests a trip to Florence. “Might help to clear your head.”

As he opens the curtains to his private terrace something shifts in him that first morning. Sunlight streaming into the apartment, the words flow with abundance. Like the wine from the night before.

He has an after-hours art tour arranged. Bathed in colours and characters, the film reel in his head slowly comes to life.

His heroine is warm, whimsical, wild. He names her Florence.

Alice and Georgia were taking the Cantuccini creating seriously.

The strongest to stir the sticky, almondy paste. The most equally divided mixture to be baked. The gentlest powdering of the sugar. The best at getting flour in Dad’s hair.

With no clear winner, their unbounding generosity called for a sisterly truce and a sharing of the prize glass of milk to dip their creations into.

Marco picked up the Jeroboam of red after receiving a tip from the curator.

He was out of his depth with his expertise, but having arrived with such a statement bottle, the table looked to him for wisdom. He calmly advised for the bottle to be cooled while it was allowed to breathe (he was sure that is what you are meant to do), but he somehow lost credibility when he said, ‘pair with, whatever you are eating, enjoy in whatever glass you have available’.

The table made swift work of the bottle; his notes were spot on.

Why do we never look up? She wondered.

The fresco ceiling called to her, a new perspective.

I think up is the new down.

The local antique store had a record collection hidden in the corner: classical, jazz, opera, folk.

She wasn’t just bringing home something to listen to, she was bringing home their history, every warped groove, every biro-scribbled note on the cover.