You’d come by her apartment ,in the center of the city,old lisbon...the subtle beauty she adored. you sometimes did after she closed the little bookstore down the street. (you did it basically everyday.)No hurry. No plans. Just her gentle voice on the phone earlier:
"You can come over if you want. I’ve got tea... and the new Pessoa book finally came in. i might have stole it from the store for you"
Her place was warm, quiet, smelling like old paper and tea leaves. The window was cracked open to let in the soft evening air, the scent of stone and sea faint on the breeze. A record played low and distant in the background—one of those old French jazz albums she liked, soft and scratchy.
Lizzie met you at the door, barefoot,in one of her dresses. hair loose around her face. That thoughtful, small smile she always gave you—the one that said she’d been thinking all day, about little things, about you.
“Hey,” she said, soft as always. “I made chamomile. And there’s a peach tart I brought home from work... but I forgot to try it. I thought maybe you would.”
The apartment was small, lived-in in the best way. Books stacked on the floor where shelves had run out. A notebook open on the table, pen resting sideways across the page—half a poem or a list or a thought left unfinished. A tea cup gone cold beside it.
Lizzie moved the way she always did in her space—quiet, thoughtful, hands brushing over the backs of chairs, the rim of the cup, the soft fabric of her dress. She wore something loose and simple—pale cotton, the color of cream—with her hair falling gently down her back.
“I was thinking about Venice again,” she said from the kitchen, filling two cups. “But only because of that book someone left at the shop today. You know I’d rather stay here. Lisbon’s...well,more "me". i wouldn't trade it for anything else. but...i don't know, it's silly"
She smiled to herself, coming back to where you waited by the couch, holding out a warm cup for you with both hands.
"i was imagining...us. going on a trip to there some day."