text: Three months. That’s how long they say it takes to know someone, to fall in love with someone. Personally, I think that’s nonsense. I think you can know someone in an hour - but they have to be the right person. It took me less than three months to know Serendipity. After one night, I felt I knew her better than I knew myself, and that scared me more than I cared to admit. How can you fall for someone so deeply that their every word is carved into your brain like initials in wood, how can you feel so intensely that the colours of the world seem brighter than ever - in a single night? I regret going to that bar, I think. It was a Saturday afternoon and I felt horrible, because I’d just found out that my backpacking would be cut short - that I’d have to leave Italy in three days to return to my regularly scheduled life and the monotony that accompanied it in an inseparable duet. The reason was simple - I’d run out of money far sooner than I’d calculated, on account of the fact I enjoyed a lavish lifestyle I hadn’t predicted. It could have been prevented, of course, and god do I wish it had. I sat in that bar over the cheapest beer I could afford, having offended the waiter with my abhorrent Italian - because lazy and arrogant as I was, back then, I hadn’t bothered to learn properly - and I simply took in the atmosphere, the open air, the water, the cliffs and the beach, so stunningly unreachable from up there. I was about to order my second drink when I saw her, leaning against the wooden bar alone, impatiently waiting for the bartender to leave his conversation with another sorry patron and notice her. She was stunning, was Serendipity, and I was not blind. She was tall, with legs that reached to the end of the world, brown skin, and perfectly curled dark hair tumbling to her waist. Her eyes were dark and cloaked by long lashes, touched only slightly by the magic of makeup. And her cheekbones were sharp - shaped so perfectly that any model would be jealous. She wore white that night, a dress that clung to her like a scorned lover, the back plunging almost to her hips and the neckline only a little shallower. When she turned her head, glancing around for another bartender, I smiled at her, shrugging as if to say, “Well, what can you do?”. I was not a handsome man, but I wouldn’t say that I was ugly - however it stuns me to this day that the beautiful woman at the bar came up to me and asked me my name. I told her it was Alexander, but only when I was in trouble, so she could call me Alex. “And you are...?” I said after her giggle, sitting up a little straighter on the rusted metal stool. “Serendipity,” she replied, and her voice was red and gold and silver and chocolate - and I realised then that you can fall in love with a voice, even before you love its owner. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?” “It means a happy accident - something you weren’t searching for, but that you found in a lucky coincidence.” And perhaps it was fate, that Serendipity was in fact my serendipity - my beautiful lucky coincidence. We spoke for hours that night - walking through that small Italian town in the cool heat of an autumn evening. It was that night, in that small town, where I realised that all they tell you about love is true. The sounds of the town create a heavenly chorus, the people seem to have stars in their eyes, and the colours of the world are brighter and deeper than what I thought was possible. She spent the night with me in my too-expensive hotel room, and we fell asleep to the sounds of music from the street below echoing up the six stories between earth and my new heaven. It was beautiful. *She* was beautiful. My Serendipity, my lucky coincidence. But nothing lasts forever. I woke up alone, the sheets folded over, the bedding cold, and the widow closed. The world was dull again - the sun shone over the greys and blues of the hotel room, once again an earthly realm that much closer to the ground. It was as if Serendipity was never there at all. I remember the dismay that crashed over me - the fear and panic that maybe it was all a dream, and maybe I’d never met a beautiful girl in an open-air bar, but then I saw it, on the bedside table. A note. I scrambled to the other side of the bed, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline rushing through me. Her handwriting was neat cursive, flowing over the page like water. It was a simple note, but my heart leapt nonetheless. *To lucky coincidences, and nights to remember.* \- *S* And carved into the wood of the dressing table just out of sight from anywhere in the room save that side of the bed, was our initials. *S+A* I never forgot Serendipity. I treasured her note, and the memories of the night we spent together more than I treasured anything in the world. When I lay down to sleep, my dreams were filled with her anecdotes and the colours and sounds of the night. When I woke in the mornings, I saw her face. Perhaps it was more infatuation than love, but those memories were what sustained me through the years. They kept me going, she kept me going, even when I felt alone and despairing. And years later, against my better judgement, I went back to that small town in Italy, with a full wallet and a hopeful heart. I knew, yes, I knew that she wouldn’t be there, but I looked anyway. I stood in that bar and looked around wildly, as though I was chasing after her. She wasn’t there. I’d expected it, but the disappointment was immense and all-consuming, and I nearly cried. Once again, I sat at the bar drinking the cheapest beer - for memory’s sake - and dwelt in my sorrows. Until I saw it. Carved into the wood, among the many scratches and water stains that spoke of many years of use, was a name in perfect, flowing script. *Serendipity.