by Gary Percesepe

She wore a navy-blue cape and carried an umbrella. The lights from our hotel shone on the wet pavement. Across the piazza were the lights of the station where my train waited. Carriages moved across the great square carrying tourists. She looked back and smiled. There was a stabbing pain in my chest. I headed for the cathedral. A fog settled in the square. Water roared through the gutters of the city. The cathedral was enormous, and the stone was wet, as if it’d been crying. Two carabinieri stood staring at me under the light, just out of the rain.

Gary Percesepe has three books coming out in 2021, including Moratorium: Collected Stories 1995-2020 (Atmosphere Press). An excerpt from his memoir-in-progress is forthcoming in The Sun. He resides in White Plains, New York, and teaches philosophy at Fordham University in the Bronx.