Red Coat and Flowers
The Tuscan night is chilly in November as she briskly strolls, balancing on her heels, almost hovering above the ancient cobblestones. She loves fresh flowers.
The chrysanthemums this year are bright pink. Beautiful, but in Italy they are still associated with funerals...like the Lily she is named after. She hates being named after a death flower.
Rosa, at the flower stand often commiserates with her about their organically ornate names, but right now it’s 3am and she is too preoccupied setting up for the early business shoppers to engage in idle repetitive chit chat no matter how Italian that daily social task is.
Lily’s not really in a hurry, it’s more the chill that pushes her. She only has an orange tabby named Figaro and an espresso ahead of her. Maybe a little sleep, if her neighbors across the hall in the tiny piazza apartment can soothe their newborn.
Her hat blocks the harsh light cascading down from the randomly placed, bizarrely Art Deco poles. She’s still wearing it. She knows it’s the middle of the night, but it shields her from the prying eyes of other nocturnal dwellers. Her life is none of their business.
“Red is the color of a harlot,” her married lover had the nerve to say the night after the day that she bought the coat. Lily told him that red was the color of a woman with power.
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