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Florian, I watched couples dancing in the square, a young woman twirling for a photo, and a group of single women swaying as they sang a song.  
    “Madame,” a white-gloved waiter pulled a cappuccino from the tray, and then a dessert platter.  
    “I didn’t order this,” I said.
    “They are with the compliments of the gentleman over there,” he pointed in the direction of a dark-haired man who tipped his glass toward me as his lips parted in a slow-forming smile.
    A second waiter brought a platter of prosciutto, melons, fresh figs and other antipasti.
    “I didn’t think you had dishes like this on the menu.”
    “We don’t, madame. These were a special request.”
    “Grazie,” I said.
    When the waiters left, I took another look at the man and mouthed, ‘Grazie’. He smiled and raised his glass toward me. The lantern light cast a soft shadow on his face where his sideburns led to a strong jawline and a dimpled chin.
    Strange, I thought, that I would run into someone at the end of my day. I had wandered around the cafe, admiring the antique mirrors and chandeliers, the rooms painted with original frescos. I had run my fingers along one of the mirrors, pondering how many women such as me had looked at themselves, questioning what their future held. How many faces could be staring back at me, and what stories would they tell, what secrets would they hold. Centuries ago, women didn’t grapple with the thoughts of double mastectomies or genetic markers. They lived their lives unaware of a disease until it riddled their bodies. It was a blessing, I thought, not to know the future. Since finding out about the future health risks of my BRCA 1 and 2 gene mutations, I grappled with my options daily.  
    In my heart, I would rather lose my breasts than die of cancer in the future. I knew life would go on, and with a good partner, even love would continue, but that wasn’t the case with my ex. To him, a mastectomy was an amputation, a disfigurement, a fearful action; whereas I saw it as embracing life. I would feel safer and calmer, but he saw it as false reassurance. He advocated a lifestyle change that wouldn’t allow cancer cells to proliferate. The problem was that included reducing stress, something I couldn’t avoid in my demanding job as a professor. My reputation as a thorough researcher left little time for anything but work.  
    At times I wondered if my former relationship had been equally as stressful. Thing is, I seemed to choose men who were challenging. One of the things I loved about Roger, was our healthy debates. I had built a wall against opening myself up to criticism, but ever since our philosophy class, he was the one person who could actually win an argument with me. But a double mastectomy was different. Genetic markers were personal, and whatever I chose to do with my body was not up for discussion. It was an area of our life where Roger strongly disagreed, and coupled with other issues, he walked away from our relationship when I needed him most.
    As I had stared into the ancient mirror, thoughts of the past, especially my own, had unnerved me and I hurried to the outside patio to find a table, and pull out a book as a distraction. I’d leaned back in the chair, knowing the evening would unfold for the quintessential but canned St. Mark’s experience, with the dueling bands and tourists dancing. A gorgeous Italian flirting with me, however, was beyond what I had imagined.  
    Then he got up from his chair, and I felt like I was in a movie scene. He was tall and muscular and even the way he walked was mesmerizing - there was an energetic vibe to his movement, and by the time he arrived at my table, I wasn’t thinking about my past at all.
    We talked, and when he said, “May I call you Cassandra?”, my name flowing off of his tongue, I was smitten.   And when he asked me to dance, the moment he held me, his fingers guiding me with the gentlest pressure on my back, I nestled my chin on his