text: Jasmine barely opened the door to the small Italian trattoria and the silver bell mounted on top pealed, announcing her arrival to the handful of tables inside. She slipped through sideways, snagging the hem of her gingham blue dress as the door shut. The waning evening sun and glimmering Manhattan lights blotted out of existence, the black painted windows creating an artificial twilight with an illusion of candles flickering across Venice. The aroma of garlic, oil, and creamy sauces hung thick in the air, the way sea salt clung to her skin the first night of her honeymoon with Bobby. She couldn’t escape the other patron’s dinners, a savory force-feeding of memories from their trysts between Milan and Rome, Bobby’s star on the rise as changing fads relegated her to decoration. The taste of chloroform masked with red sauce. The hostess smiled, a bland professional veneer that masked any scrutiny about whether Jasmine deserved one of the exclusive tables at Il Postino . She reminded herself she ate here before, already passed their test, even if the reservation had belonged to Bobby and not her. Her watering mouth turned to cardboard when she noticed the minimalist eating area, couples paired up at a half-dozen tables next to an empty bar. The open concept guaranteed her date couldn’t be tucked away out of sight. “I’m supposed to meet someone, Christian Jarez.” She took two steps closer to the hostess so no one would overhear her inevitable humiliation. This was a terrible place for a first date, fresh with memories of Bobby, but she couldn’t think of a reason to ask Christian to choose a different restaurant. She couldn’t bring up a past relationship so early in a new one. The hostess’ mouth twisted in concentration as she studied an oversized ledger, an awkward expression that accentuated her beauty that came so naturally with youth. Only a thin podium stood between the two women, nowhere for Jasmine to hide. Jasmine didn’t wait, ready with an excuse to leave, when the bell above the door chimed again. Two sets of footsteps, clipped and assured, echoed amid the hostess’ silence. A sultry woman in a red dress, features dark as night with piercing blue eyes, walked in trailing the hand of her date. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. Bobby didn’t recognize her, his gaze focused solely on the woman in front of him. Jasmine took a step back, desperate for the moment to pass unnoticed. The woman in the red dress sashayed, her full hips swinging in time to Jasmine’s heartbeat. She dropped his hand and left Bobby behind, confidant that all eyes followed her as she walked away. She leaned on the hostess’ podium while the young girl rushed to accommodate their reservation. “Are you Jasmine Varez? I saw your exhibition at the Anastasia last month. You’re an amazing photographer,” Bobby gushed, something in his tone less grave than she remembered. Swatting at her eyes to hold back the threatening well of tears, Jasmine confronted Bobby. His dark hair no longer had the sprinkle of salt coloring at his temples, fuller and wavier than it had been when he walked out. The corner of his gray eyes, the eyes that had probed her with both desire and scorn in equal measures, were smooth, missing the care lines a decade of marriage had brought. He studied her with interest, but without history. He was young, the man she fell in love with before abandonment twisted their feelings into an aberration. “The Anastasia? I haven’t shown there since before your debut,” the memory washed her away, a temporary respite of happier days, when they were the darlings of art society. A pairing talked about and adored. Bobby blushed, a stainless shade of pink, too innocent for their tortured souls. “I’m flattered if you’ve even heard of me, but I can only aspire to your skill. The Anastasia is above my level.” A traitorous tear escaped, leaving a wet trail down her cheek. Jasmine ducked her head, too scared to wipe it away and leave a black trail with her makeup as visible proof of how much this hurt. “I’m sorry, I must have caught you at a bad time. That was inconsiderate of me,” he rifled through his pockets for a moment and pulled out a wallet and handkerchief. Bobby’s date cleared her throat loudly, impatient to see him talking to another woman. Upset the spotlight diverted from her rightful place, she clenched her jaw and bared her teeth as any predator in the jungle. Bobby produced a business card and handed it to her, along with the handkerchief. She carefully blotted her eyes, mascara and eyeliner bleeding into the crisp white fabric. “If you ever have time to discuss your photographs with a neophyte like myself,” he flashed the vibrant smile that made her fall in love with him, “Please call me.” Without another word, Bobby descended into the cloud of rich dinners, happy couples, and infinite futures, no apology or recompense. Jasmine unfolded the handkerchief, the smeared makeup creating a Rorschach test with an image that perfectly resembled a dove. The same dove Bobbie had framed once they started dating, to commemorate the first time they met in an Italian restaurant, and he gave her a handkerchief to dry her tears. The handkerchief that became part of his first art exhibit, his first big success. The dove on which Bobby soared. She looked between the card and the dove, sudden revelation that she wasn’t remembering the past, but granted a view of the future. Their future, the start of everything they were going to be and eventually destroy. The dove in her hand represented their love, his career, and her demise. Would she trade the means to enjoy a better end? Or would she arrive at the same place again for the experience at one glorious summer in Italy, the center of their shared world? The hostess opened her mouth, probably to apologize that there was no reservation, no record of her post-breakup blind date. Jasmine didn’t wait for the explanation. The silver bell above the door tinkled again as Jasmine left, a second chance in her hands. History was immutable, the two of them inevitably draw together like fish upstream to a waiting bear. He was the black hole that would consume her. One small difference existed between the future she remembered and this Italian restaurant. The dove in her hand, a change in fortunes. Jasmine had an art exhibit to create and a phone call to make.