Meet Francesca

Meet Francesca. She stopped by a tiny salami and wine bar in Santo Spirito with the pretenses of saying hi to a friend. Really though, she was there NOT to talk to a particularly handsome man, who had been acting poorly as of late. It was obvious, even to me, that he deserved to be intentionally ignored, which she did with skillful ease. Don’t let her curls and sweet smile fool you, she was one tough Hunter-boot-wearing sweetheart, and her matching nails and overnight bag say she’s as good at details as she is at clipped words and a slightly turned head.

Once she was satisfied that she’d made her point, she climbed into her itty bitty Fiat and was off to her grandparents’ farm in the Chianti countryside, wondering why men weren’t simple like horses.

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