Palazzo

I can imagine a story.

Love, a warm Mediterranean afternoon, and thoughts.  Post-coital melancholy perhaps.  The realisation that it will sooner or later come to an end, that love no matter how perfect is frangible.


He goes back after to their bed, and his passion leads his lover to rejoice in their bond.  Yet he has already decided, now, as he looks out into the fading light of a Roman summer afternoon.