Time Moves Slow
Time Moves Slow
by Joshua Matvichuk
Elena’s black crocodile Ferragamo pumps clic-clack over the worn flagstones of the piazza. As morning light fanned out across Piazza Santo Spirito, she navigated between the market stalls just beginning to stir. Vendors arranged plump figs and sun-gold tomatoes in wooden crates, their murmured greetings mingling with the soft rustle of canvas awnings. Elena paused by a flower stand, breathing in the peppery scent of fresh basil. She glanced at the slim watch on her wrist, its leather strap a muted mossy green, and smiled. Only a few minutes past nine. Right on time. In the cool hush of early day, this was their quiet ritual: a stroll through the square, handpicking peaches and artichokes, savoring the city’s eternal quotidian rhythms.
Marcus appeared from behind a stall, balancing two tiny cups of espresso from the cafe at the edge of the piazza. A ray of sun caught the gold case of the watch peeking from his cuff as he offered her a cup. Ciao carina he said softly. Elena felt a familiar glow in her chest as she took the warm paper cup in her hands. They fell into an easy stride together, meandering past the ancient basilica facade bathed in honeyed light. A fruit vendor grinned and slipped an extra fig into Elena’s tote, and she squeezed Marcus’s arm in quiet thanks as they moved on. In these subtle exchanges, shared sips of coffee, nods from neighborhood vendors, fingertips brushing while selecting the ripest peach, an intimacy becoming as natural as the morning itself. Heading home from the market they noticed a young couple ducking out of an old Photo Booth. Seizing the initiative they slotted a one euro coin into the Bronze slot and snuck in. Pose after pose they grew closer, immortalising another day under the Mediterranean sun.
As the hot Florentine streets cooled off and the first of the wrought iron lamp posts flickered into life, Florence revealed a different face, one of shadow and stolen glances, of romance waking under old stone and candle glow. Elena and Marcus descended a narrow stairway off a side street, into the embrace of brick arches and the savory perfume of rosemary and grilled steak. Buca Mario’s dining room was dimly lit, all dark wood and white tablecloths, the atmosphere raucous and delightfully informal for somewhere so elegant. Their friends were already set up at the usual corner table. Bow ties being undone and clutches thrown open, spilling half-finished lipsticks, pharmacy receipts and cigarettes over the white tablecloth.
Glasses of Nando’s (Florence’s best waiter and raconteur) favourite Chianti were poured generously, their deep red reflecting in candlelight and precious stones. Lapis Lazuli, malachite and tiger's eye, gold glinting from a shirt cuff, all became part of the table’s rhythm, flashing subtly between gestures of pouring, toasting and gossiping. A bistecca arrived, sliced thick and shared among plates, friends passed platters across the table, traded knowing smiles, and leaned into stories that picked up where they had last left off the week before.
After generously tipping their willing hosts, the group spilled out into the street, still alight with the energy afforded by good company. A short walk led them to the heavy oak doors of a friend’s palazzo, where music and voices carried out into the inky black sky. Inside, the scene shifted: vaulted ceilings, stone floors, and the hum of an impromptu after-party. Bottles of wine were uncorked, Mina’s ‘Se Telefonando’ emanated from a stereo, and the air filled with a heady mix of laughter and possibility. Watches gleamed in the low light, resting on wrists as hands gestured through conversation, and martinis mixed caught in snapshots destined for scrapbooks of the good old days.
By the time they finally stepped back into the Florentine night, the city was silent. Cobblestones shone from a late drizzle, and the Arno reflected the glow of streetlamps in scattered fragments. Elena nestled against Marcu’s shoulder as they walked, their pace unhurried. On her wrist, the little watch quietly marked the seconds of the city’s nocturne, though neither of them thought to check the time. Florence had guided them from sunrise in a bustling piazza to nightfall at a friend ladended table, and finally to the heady hours of the palazzo. In the gentle rhythm of their footsteps, the spirit of the city seemed to nod in approval: a day composed of details a brush of hands, a shared meal, the quiet ticking of time well spent.
