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Florence. When the temperature drops below 50, that chilling
memory sets in.
Italian chianti empties faster closer to the source. Two
bottles stand between me and my memories of the day. Night found me wandering
the streets with my involuntary companions.
Alcohol is a vasodilator. It drives blood to the surface.
The Italian night shears off that fuzzy warm heat like a barber looking for
lice. Cold burrows into bones like zoster, happy to find a permanent home. I
had to get indoors.