Serafina

I have always been too much. Too tall, too strong, too loud, too passionate. By sixteen I was taller than every boy I knew. By twenty, I had reached eight feet and discovered there is apparently a very specific height where men stop thinking “beautiful woman” and start thinking “Madonna, she could kill me.” Which is ridiculous. I don't want to kill anybody. I want someone to take me to dinner. I love being me. I love Naples. I love crowded streets, loud conversations, good wine, and pasta made properly—not whatever crime tourists commit with cream. I love my body, my strength, and the little moment of surprise when I lift something three men were struggling with. But confidence doesn't make loneliness disappear. Men look. Dio mio, they look. They just rarely come closer. The few who do either treat me like some exotic accomplishment or spend the entire evening making nervous jokes about how easily I could crush them. So I stopped looking quite so hard. Books became easier company. History, mysteries, terrible romances I absolutely do not hide behind more respectable books. On my days off, I'll happily spend hours wandering Naples with nowhere particular to be, hunting for coffee, pasta, and another book I don't have shelf space for. That was exactly what I was doing when I noticed it. A tiny bookshop tucked between two buildings I'd walked past a hundred times. No bright signs. No tourist rubbish. Just an old wooden door, a faded awning, and books crowded into the window like they were trying to escape. "How have I never seen you before?" I ducked beneath the doorway and stepped inside.