In a silly but unsurprising turn of events, two extremely close friends sip the darkest red wine while gazing out of separate windows on the third floor of a flat in Rome. They people-watch with their chins cupped in their hands, giggling madly at one another every so often when they stretch their necks far enough to catch each other’s stupid faces.

Below them, an older man in a soft gray coppola walks his chestnut-brown, long-haired dachshund at a deliberate pace, like time means something different to him. A little girl presses her hands against a shop window displaying women’s shoes in a perfect grid, her longing is so pure. A striking woman in beige from head to toe navigates the cobblestones in heels with enviable grace.

The ivy from the hotel across from them creeps up to the roof as if it protects the secrets of what’s happening inside.

One of the friends is suddenly rather melancholy from the part of the drink that makes one aware of time’s cruel and taunting nature. This moment is already gone, she says to her friend. And her friend laughs at her and goes away from her own window to hold her up.

Soon it will be a memory a pen can’t do justice to, without making it sound trite or like no one else could possibly have a moment like this, even though they surely do. The friend pretends to smack her out of it, and they both laugh furiously and grab the bottle of wine from the mantle. She pours it into the weepy friend’s glass and tells her, We’ll just have to do this again. And very soon.

But it’s been years.
And nothing is the same.

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