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the open window. That silence is broken when the phone is hung up.
    I hear Grace shuffle back to the bed.
    I feel her getting into bed, curling up beside me. I feel her warmth. I smell her sweet skin and hair.
    â€œStrange,” she says.
    â€œCare to extrapolate?”
    â€œThe man on the other end of the line. He kept repeating. ‘I see. I see. I see.’” She laughs a little under her breath. “I had to ask him, ‘What do you see?’ But he just hung up.”
    I roll onto my side, facing her, as if I can see her. But then I do see her. I see her dark hair fluffed back, her green eyes open, staring into me, through me, onto some distant possibility.
    â€œDid he sound Italian?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” she exhales. “The accent was different. I can’t put my finger on it. But I don’t think the call came from here. From Italy.”
    I turn onto my back, stare up at the ceiling. A big black blank nothing of a ceiling.
    â€œI’m guessing whoever owns this apartment made the call, thinking someone he knows is staying here.”
    â€œSure,” Grace says, after a beat. But I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking she’s weirded out, just like she was when that overcoat man kept staring at us this afternoon. Grace is in tune with her inner voice. Her mantra. Her karma. The man on the phone with the strange accent telling her “I see,” falls into the realm of “be warned.” But as for me, it’s just a stupid phone call. And an easily forgettable one at that.
    I pull the covers off.
    â€œWine for the great artist?” I pose. I pronounce “artist” like “arteest.”
    Grace pulls the cover off, slides out of bed, stands.
    â€œI’ll get it,” she quickly offers.
    â€œGrace!” I bark. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing in the dark.”
    â€œOn second thought,” she says over the gentle sound of her slipping back into bed, “I think I’ll lie here for another minute and drink up Venice.”
    â€œSplendid choice, Madame.”
    â€œI am your state of Grace,” she says. “Never forget it.”

Chapter 8
    I’M DRESSED IN A pair of jeans and a T-shirt, while Grace has tossed on one of my big green “Army” T’s over a pair of silk black panties. Or so she tells me. But I run my fingertips gently across her bottom just to make sure, and the charge the touching gives me nearly causes me to pull her back into bed with me. T-shirt and black panties is the standard Grace sexy-post-sex uniform that I remember so well and that makes my heart skip a beat when I see her in it.
    I’m sitting on a wood stool in between Grace’s easel and the kitchenette. To my right is the open window. To my left a wood harvest table that’s become a kind of catch-all for our computers, spare eyeglasses, paper, smart phones, and Grace’s shoulder bag, as much as it is a place to sit down at to eat together. And yes, I still use a computer. Comes in handy when I can see, and even when I can’t, I can simply toss on the speak application. Not that I’ve actually attempted to use it yet. Just the thought of writing something new leaves me with a dull, hollow pain in my stomach.
    I hear the sound of pots and pans banging, and already I’m smelling the good smell of fresh garlic simmering in olive oil.
    â€œWhy do you think that man would say something like ‘I see’?” Grace poses after a time. Like I said, my fiancée is not the type to allow these, let’s call them life events, to fade away easily. Always there must be a hidden meaning, even if there is none.
    I sip my red wine, allow the liquid to rest in the back of my throat for a brief moment before swallowing. In Europe, I love the red wines. Back in the states, they give me a headache. Sulfites, I’m told. Additives and preservatives. In Italy, as in most of Europe, the