with a pounding heart. I’m drunk with the words and images that seemed to gush out of me—as if this were my usual writing routine. At the same time, I’ve never been less sure whether the text actually expresses what I want it to say. Staring at the confirmation on my e-mail display, I use my phone to write a short text message to Claire, asking her to check my article for spelling mistakes and bloopers before bringing it to tomorrow’s editorial meeting. Her reply arrives soon after: Do you want my opinion, too? How can she sense my state of mind even from over six hundred miles away? Absolutely not, I type with a smile and put the phone in my handbag. I have to get ready for my date with Fabrizio in five minutes. When I hear a quiet knock at the door, I almost drop my mascara. “Just a moment,” I shout, tugging on my turquoise dress, which looks as wrinkled as I feel. Lucia’s voice comes through the door.
