Value

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   She slowley walks down Florence streets, her red velvet skirt sways with every young, easy step she takes.  She breaths in the aroma of the flora grown from gnarled burgundy clay pots, mounted on withering stone walls in the sills of empty windows.  She wears a silken ginger blouse and worn in coffee sandals that expose her delicate toes painted in dehydrated dirt.  Fragile rock crumbs dust beneath her steps, and she languidly chafes her bony fingers across the stone walls that incarcerate her in five feet of freedom.  With her threadbare basket in the crook of her bronzed arm she exits into the busy market.
   Approaching the booth satiated with myriads of rows bursting with flowers, she pays each one gentle attention.  She tickles them with her nose, breathing them in as memories.  Placidly placing her favorites in her vat, she feels a tender hand entertain the small of her back.  A smile pierces her lips as a familiar friendly nose nuzzles behind her ear and inhales avidly.  Strong arms swallow her slender waist and lips amuse her bare neck.  She weaves free and continues to mill over to the fresh produce, he trails closely behind and observes her fastidious shopping.  Several sincere compliments fall from his sensitive mouth, deserving the hidden smirks she hastily ingests.  Assembling the last of what she came for, she pivots to his grin, his hungry russet hands reach out to her.  She reflexively twists the simple gold band on her finger; his genuine empathetic eyes breed serious, pain.  Turning regrettably she flees, parting him with wasted compassion.
   She strides to her petite, humbly weather worn, and undemanding stone abode.  Releasing her recently purchased goods from her basket she proceeds to mince, merge, shred and saute.
   Her hefty physiqued husband enters, and without a gentle touch, grumbles of overgrown shrubbery littering the terrace.  She patiently places his food in front of his voracious fingers.  Deviod of a thank you, he hastily consumes and critizies the insipidness.  She sits and ignores his "Hmpf," directed at her disheveled hair, and thinks of a man... miles from this occupied, hand-crafted chair.
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