Elena stood under the vines on the patio and looked over the azure sea . “Gianni,” she said, stroking his thick black hair, “we must eat something, and take some wine”.
“Amore mio,” he said, stretching his lean, tan, and almost naked body, “what would you desire? Perhaps some fresh squid from that fisherman down there…. or see, that vendor is grilling some chicken…”
Elena yawned. The sun drifted slowly toward the horizon. “Come Gianni, pour me some Campari, and we’ll walk to that cafe. They have a lovely taramosalata, with tomatoes and mozzarella”.
Gianni did not move, just gazed over the town, the strand, the sea. Together they contemplated the night: the simple joy of fresh food; the smells; the tastes; the heat.
Just then, as if in synchrony, from behind them came the cry of “Cornhole!!”, and from in front “No running!” and a whistle.