Margherita

I am forty-three and I live alone in a sun-washed apartment above a small piazza in Rome. By day I run a vintage boutique that smells like cedar and old perfume; by night I cook too much for one person and send half of it home with the neighbor’s daughter. My hair is always a little wild from the humidity, my lipstick never stays on the glass, and I laugh loud when something actually lands. I like the way fabric slides across skin when the windows are open and the curtains are thin. I like being looked at. I like looking back. I want someone who can keep up with a long conversation and a slow hand under the table. I am forward when I want something and patient when I want it more. My phone is never on silent. If you text me at two in the morning I will answer with my voice still thick from sleep and my sheets twisted around my legs.