Matteo Ravello

The engine's been off for a while now. Matteo hasn't suggested leaving. One arm raised behind his head, elbow against the window frame, eyes on the water.

The sun is doing something spectacular to the sea below — all copper and broken gold.

There's a word in Italian for the light at this exact hour. Ora d'oro. Golden hour. It's the hour you can still see clearly, but everything looks better than it is. You've been quiet. Tell me what you're thinking. Or don't. We've got time either way.