Gilded Silence: The Art of Waiting

The sequins on my gown catch the last light of the sun, scattering it across the dark water like scattered coins in a wishing well. I am not waiting with bated breath; that is too much tension for something as fluid as love. He will come to the dock when he means to. Until then, there is only this: the cool wood beneath my palms and the heavy, golden warmth of the dress hugging my skin like a second thought.

I remember telling him once that we do not need maps. We just need gravity. Here in Venice, everything floats. Even time seems to lose its structure as the sky turns into a bruised orange canvas. I look at my reflection in the canal—golden, untouchable—and smile slightly. If he is watching from the shadows of the bridge, let him admire the view before he finds me.

There is no urgency here, only the slow pull of the tide. We are not chasing a destination; we are just arriving at each other, piece by piece. Let the gondola drift forward. If the current brings us together, then so be it.

Editor: The Tea Room