Twenty Six

I woke up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. Mariano's side of the bed was cold, as if he'd been gone for hours.

His phone was lying on the bedside table, along with the book he was reading.

I noticed that our clothes were still carelessly strewn all over the place, and picked them all up, dressing myself in Mariano's white shirt.

The clock struck three suddenly, and there was the sound of muttered Italian phrases from the balcony adjoining Mariano's room.

I padded over to him. The sky was dark, with almost no stars, and Mariano sat on a swinging chair, smoking. He had a swinging chair. I giggled to myself. Only 60 year olds have swinging chairs. 

"Hi." I whispered, and