There was a thunderstorm in Tuscany and the taxi skidded through fist-deep puddles as we snaked up the hills around Palaia, parting the rain. The car bucked into the air like a bronco and it was frantic and soupy outside. I could see more of my own face in the window than anything beyond.
I watched Luc* in the front passenger seat, his angular face in relief, a little piece of paper with guitar chords sketched out on his knee. With head craned forward, his fingers winded up and down them as if it really was a guitar; it was at once baffling and sad, a sign of obsession. A stone flicked up at the windscreen and I knew I was in love, a sensation that surprised friends when I told them back in London.
I was, after all, sitting next to my boyfriend Sam on the back seat, my feelings for whom were unchanged by this sudden jolt.
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