The patio overlooked my fantasy but we sat inside and had overcooked fish. Clinking glasses of white wine: Here’s to hoping you’d be someone you’re not, she said—or was that me? I’m trying to be more definitive but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice a silhouette in the upstairs window of the shadow-dappled brick building across the street where I could swear I once heard knocking. The young woman sold hand-made shawls at the street fair down below while the hot afternoon lay syrupy like nostalgia and poplar seeds fell like snow, but like usual, I didn’t need cover, only more sets of eyes. The churchbells ring at noon and nothing changes, just what we’re trying to be. Absence is at least not nothing. From it we derive the existence of all else.