After the afternoon months ago when she’d met him, she had indulged herself in recalling every detail of that afternoon with him in Venice: what he had said, what she had said, how he had looked at her. For a time, going over it in her mind reignited the thrumming in her body. Eventually, though, such raking over made the few memories of Antonio and that day stale from overuse, the juice squeezed from them.
