“What do you think” she said.
“A different country for every decade. To reinvent yourself and never leave a trace of your former self.
Never to be left at the olive tree where we first kissed or stand on the shore watching our bright boats fade to sepia in the distance.
What if each chapter were a new place. A capital city to end the sentence and begin another. A white field for solace.
To begin anew, reborn and unknown and leave new prints on coloured glasses and taste each other for the first time.”
He smiled the way he always does.
“You’re the writer, tell me a story.”
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