short story : italian women in pietrasanta


In Pietrasanta, where even the skate park is made of marble. It’s overcast which seems to make the statues come to life in an extra gradient of dimension. The immense heads lying bereft in the square. The broken angels in a tarnished blue look lifted from the sea floor. I sit in a cafe on the plaza drinking a cappuccino, surrounded by older Italian women. The blonde dyed hair over proud dark roots, the color of graphite mixed in. The jewelry – thick gold bands, a diamond here, six floral garnets there- no hand left unadorned. They’re beautiful- appearing so much more richly-fed than the French women. I find both this richness and the French restraint delicious for different reasons. Italian women for taste buds and satiating desire while the French hunger is also a vividness and depth of emotions.

Who was it but the flaneur that described the artists of France having such colorful imaginations in proportion to their empty stomachs and the hallucinations of great hunger?


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