Are you lonely? I might fix that.

Standing over the sink, barefoot, still half asleep. Both hands, no plate, no apology.

The sweet juice went everywhere. Down my lips, my chin, my wrist, my elbow, my chest to places it probably shouldn't have.

I didn't move to Portugal for the weather. I didn't move here for the wine. I moved here because someone told me the peaches taste different.

They were right. About the peaches. And about everything else.

Some things are better without witnesses. This was one of them.

Three hours. I gave this pie three hours of my life. It came out flat, cracked, and a little sad. Like my situationship in 2023.

I stood there covered in flour, apron half on, hands white, something on my cheek I didn't bother to wipe, and thought... maybe I was made for something else.

The recipe said easy. The recipe lied. I think the recipe and I need some time apart.

I'm keeping the apron though. It looks better on me than the pie ever did.

Some girls cook. Some girls burn things beautifully. I know which one I am.

We didn't talk much. The wine wasn't even open yet.

In ancient Rome, women were forbidden from drinking wine. The punishment was death.

Some things are worth the risk.

I still think about it when I open a bottle. Every time. Some evenings stay with you like that. Under your skin. In your hands.

I want to feel that again. With someone who doesn't need it explained.

There is a specific kind of man in Italy.

He doesn't ask if you liked the food. He watches your face while you eat.

And somehow that's more intimate than anything else.

Women don't need touch first. You know it, right?

We need an image. A sweet one. One sentence that lands right and suddenly everything is different.

The body follows the mind. Always.

She did not follow the strange path because she was bored. She followed because something in her already wanted to see where it went.

I've been on page seven for three nights. Same paragraph. You understand. I write things too, late at night.