Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred … – Catullus
His texts were brief and disappointing – Weather not good it’s raining. In spite of crossing mountains he’d little more to say – In Ora, Italy, but everyone speaks German.
She replied she missed him, got up to make her morning tea, heard this had been the coldest May − snow on the hills hadn’t melted, it was waiting for the spring.
She dropped honey from a spoon, saw the beech in her garden unfurl, heard the double beep of a text from a much too literal world.
He’d sent a photograph – the largest lake in Italy. She plunged into the deep blue and tingled with a thousand kisses.