We've lost track of the hours and the days. Pizza and pasta and fumbled attempts at broken street-side chitchat merge into one big mozzarella ball. (Delicious, but hard to tell where it begins and ends).
In the morning it's pitch black and our bodies slither beneath the sheets, begging for just a little bit of mercy.
But the perspective's all skewed, like an upside-down magnifying glass that warbles the letters. It's actually bright outside, painfully bright, the sunshine blocked by wooden shades, at a time they told us is ten in the morning and why aren't we up? We are in Italy for just two weeks, after all.
The last layer of sleep coats our eye lids, forearms and calves, and we alternate between resisting and giving in.
An inch away almost out of focus, I notice a tiny spot on his arm that I don't remember seeing before. And then there is another knock on the door.