“We’ll never speak again,” I said as we glided down the never-ending slope, the wind in our hair.
“Don’t say that.”
“I just know it. We’ll chitchat. Chitchat, chitchat. That’s all. And the funny thing is, I can live with that.”
“You just rhymed,” he said.
I loved the way he’d flip on me. 
Two hours later, at lunch, I gave myself all the proof I needed that I would never be able to live with that.
Before dessert, while Mafalda was clearing away the plates and while everyone’s attention was focused on a conversation about Jacopone da Todi, I felt a warm, bare foot casually brush mine.