A Love story

When Philip wakes again it is dayhght; as window, wash-basin, chair and then rucksacks swim into focus, this time he knows where he is: in a room in a pensione in Florence, just a stone's throw from the bridge where Dante saw Beatrice, exams over, his girl beside him. Three months of travelling. Seeing. Voyage to Discovery. New World fmds Old. He turns his head; Alvie is still asleep. Sitting up carefully, he watches a pulse ticking in her neck. Her skin is pale, winter-pale, but across the pillow her hair is a copper fire. She has used the rinse she bought to try out her phrase book Italian. Her lips move; she is smiling. At what, he wonders, sliding out of the bed. What?