Yummy #gelato (Taken with Instagram)
If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.
—Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon
This song makes me think of summer.
Great [old] song by Tegan and Sara.
Tonight I was listening to Postcards from Italy and I started thinking about the person who shared it with me. Thinking about that day by the oak trees and how I could taste the salt from the wind and the sea. My palms were sweaty and my feet felt light. You looked lovely. I tried not to look nervous. We shared childhood stories. We ate ice cream and watched others on the wharf. In between bites we secretly stole glances at each other. You, as graceful as you were, managed to allow ice cream to drip all over your hands. We laughed while you frantically searched your bag for a tissue. You were clearly embarrassed at the mess you had made. I thought you looked adorable. This was our first date. Some say that first impressions matter. Maybe they’re right. You might not have known it then, but you had already started to make a lasting impression from the moment I first saw you that day; from the clothes you wore to the way you brushed your bangs and how you smiled, I thought you were perfect. I hope I never forget the memories formed on that day. The scent of the sea. The oak trees. The stolen glances. Unluckily for you, I’m fairly sure I won’t forget the mess you made with your ice cream.