Betsy arrived three minutes early. She was wearing a light coat, carrying an underlined book, and had that look that seemed to ask without questioning. The promise had been simple: “Tomorrow, coffee.” And there they were, in a bright corner of Piazza della Repubblica, where the piano in the living room blended with the clinking of spoons.

"Latte?" Miles asked.
—Macchiato—she said—. Just right between black and white. Like things you don't yet know.

They asked for two, left the phones face down —a small ceremony of respect— and told each other about their lives not as an inventory but as a landscape: cities, jobs, mothers who keep photos in boxes, a dog named Jazz, a fear of heights that was sometimes also a fear of the future.

The coffees arrived with perfect foam. Miles remembered his secret theory: The first conversation says less with words than with silences. The silence with Betsy was comfortable, like when familiar music returns without making a sound.

"Are you staying this afternoon?" she asked.
—If there is a “yes” from you —he replied.

Betsy smiled and pointed north with her chin.
—I have a plan: perfumes and stories.

They walked until Santa Maria Novella. The floor seemed to hold centuries of history. Inside, everything smelled of an old apothecary and a secret garden. A guide whispered the genealogy of the waters and ointments; a lady tasted an essence of cocoa beans and orange; a child gazed at himself in a gold-framed mirror as if it were a painting.

Betsy chose three notes to play: bergamot, iris and sandalwood.
—They say the iris is the soul of Florence—he said. —And that sandalwood knows how to wait.

She tested it on her wrist, Miles on the paper. They leaned closer to compare, and for a second the distance between them was nothing but perfumed air. Neither said anything; there was no need. Sometimes the right language is the language of breath.

They left with a small sample and an unnamed plan. They crossed over. Oltrarno, where workshops preserve their trades like old letters. At a long table, an artisan spread out a tray with water and pigments.

—marbled paper —he explained—. We have to learn not to be in complete control.

Betsy moved a fine comb; Miles let fall a blue drop that opened like a shy galaxy. The craftsman looked at them with the benevolence of a master and declared:
—The drawing turns out better when they're not trying to win.

Betsy laughed. Miles thought that perhaps that was what he liked most about Firenze: everything invites you to mix without dominating, to choose proportions and let chance shape the work. Like in the morning coffee. Like in affections that don't rush.

Evening fell. They went up to San Miniato al Monte to watch the city turn golden. The dome, the tiles, the river: a map of lights learning to speak at night. Betsy opened her notebook and wrote something down; Miles didn't read it, but sensed a "later.".

—Then… —he said.
-So Yeah —she replied—. Another coffee. And maybe another blend.

On the way back, the perfume on Betsy's wrist had changed; the notes had settled like someone finding a comfortable chair. The morning's macchiato was still there, but with a new nuance. Miles thought that perhaps romance is like that: a cup whose temperature is carefully maintained by two people.

As they said goodbye, Betsy gave him the small iris sample.
—So you remember —he said— that some stories are written with the nose.

Miles smiled. Learning not to be in complete control. That would be the title in her head as she descended, with Firenze lit and a perfumed yes in her pocket.