Il Piccolo Tesoro
I'm stepping into an expresso bar, fragrant with strong coffee and sweet cornetti, when my attention is drawn uphill by a weathered pink and green sign offering a vacancy at Il Piccolo Tesoro. The small treasure. I'm not greedy. The adjective appeals as much as the noun promises.I chose this Ligurian village in the sensible way, by spreading a map of Italy across my kitchen table in Toronto, closing my eyes and pushing a pushpin into destiny.
But when he got transferred up the coast, she couldn't bear commuting 100 miles down to the city, cutting him out of her days like that. ("Quiet as the Moon")