You had a small glass bottle of lemon soda. The straw bobbed up and down like a candy cane buoy on a yellow sea, the biscotto on the table land beyond the water. You snuck bites from the archipelago of crumbs spread between you and me.
Small joys, you said, are worth living for. I smiled and agreed. But what I really wanted to do was jump on the tiny table, kiss you on the lips, bite your nose, grab your hand to run past the old italians screaming: