She left me in style. Absconded in the night. Hopped into a gondola—I mean the kind hot-air balloons have (but this was in Venice)—
flourished a knife and cut the mooring ropes. She touched her Gauloise to the pilot light and bailed her dress out, barely rising in time.
I ran up panting, shouting: “Lunch tomorrow?” She blew a kiss. “You’ve got to be realistic.” I watched her float away, nude over the roofs,
and felt the city sink another inch.