Oranges and Lemons

My friends have been tried to get married for a while. One night he went down on one knee, she said yes. They kissed. Everyone around clapping and hugging and howling. Someone cried. It was as romantic as a proposal can get. And then nothing happened.

The day the restaurant manager told them they had to cancel everything because of the new restrictions, they cried. But they didn’t tell anyone. They just shut the front door, locked themselves up in the flat for 18 months and waited.

Waited until this week.

The bride, she’s from this small town in Sicily. You leave the motorway and then it’s all tiny roads twirling around the mountains. When the sun starts hiding everything turns orange and pink. The invisible hand of a painter brushing landscapes outside of your windshield.

They live in one of those big cities where bars are opened until late and you can get a drink when nurses leave their night shifts. That’s where they pay bills and mortgage. Where they settled. But since the bride was from down here in Sicily, they decided to celebrate in her hometown like the best tradition.

We came here after a couple of swabs up to our noses and a stopover in Naples where you melted outside in the sun, but the honey and cereal croissant were so good you didn’t even notice.