“Tomorrow we are not seeing any dozy glass-blowing.” groaned Bernice as she sipped wine.

“It’s no good coming to Venice and not visiting the island of Murano,” replied Barry, “I would love to go again before we leave. There are loads more that I want see.”

“Barry! We are on holiday. I am here to relax.” Bernice finished the last drops of her Chianti and then put the empty glass on the bedside table. “Let’s have some fun, like normal people.”

“I am here to relax as well,” Barry said as he turned his back and tugged down on the pillow to make things more comfortable. Bernice reached out to touch her husband. She stroked his back, feeling only soft skin beneath her fingertips, hoping that the holiday would not always be like this.

Barry imagined that he was the only visitor to the glass factory. He removed all other tourists until he was alone. Then he saw perfection. There was Sabrina, an olive skinned avatar of heroic beauty, a naiad shaping and blending the sphere of burning glass into a rose bud. Her hands spinning the fine glass rod. Then bringing it to her lips and blowing softly down the tube. Barry breathed in. Her eyes fixed on him. She spun and blew the glass and made his heart ache. Her tongue caressed the tip of the rod, making it pulse with a cascade of sparks.

As the rosebud was bought into the world, Sabrina swayed with each turn of the glass tube. Fingers stroking and twirling the delicate shaft sweat from her brow mingling with the fireflies that flew off the molten bowl. Each breath made his pulse quicken, an echo of the feelings when Bernice called herself Bernie. A time lost to the shadow of now.

The glass cooled and the rosebud flushed with pink was lifted high. Sabrina smiled at Barry saying, “I have a rose bud that needs to open too.”

Murano was waiting for him.

Bernice listened to Barry’s erratic breathing. This holiday was not good for them. They had revisited old arguments at every hotel and every restaurant. Barry was a man crushed by his refusal to accept change. Bernice was drained of trying to raise his spirits. Each day was the same, turning so fast that no peace could be found. They collided and bounced through every day, sickened by the dizziness that had overcome them. Things had to stop.

The lapping sound of the Grand canal seemed to tap on the balcony of their hotel room. Each tap was an echo of a thousand tourists trying to mingle with new memories of Gondoliers, cappuccinos and the Bridge of Sighs. Such visions had propelled them both to Venice. Taking her fingers away from Barry, Bernice noticed a sparkle of light bounce off the clasp of her purse lying on the bedside table. It was opened slightly and the sliver of paper nestled within waited to be unfolded.

She imagined she was the only visitor to the restaurant in San Marcos Square. She removed all other tourists until she was sitting alone. Then she saw perfection. Inigo, an olive skinned avatar of heroic beauty, preparing a cappuccino as if he was illuminating a gospel. Bernice sipped her martini and watched Inigo approach her. His hands cradling a cup, gently turning it around. A finger stroking the warm china, wiping away a wisp of cream.

He smiled at Bernice and the world remade itself.

San Marcos Square was waiting for her.