Alexis Bumgarner

 • Beyond the Pines Magazine

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 • Beyond the Pines Magazine

She moved like a memory half in shadow, half in sun dripping with the golden hour and the kind of silence that lingers after a confession. The terrace hummed with soft laughter and the clink of glass, but she was still, poised in white lace, untouched by time. Around her, the others glowed like oil paintings lounging, reading, leaning into one another like secrets. The sea shimmered below, too distant to interrupt, and the air smelled of citrus and something sweeter, like youth slipping through warm hands. They weren’t chasing romance; they were becoming it. Every glance, every undone strap, every curl of steam from a wine glass was a frame in a forgotten film one that never had an ending, only a fade. In that villa carved into the cliffs of Positano, they lived in a hush between fiction and longing, unbothered by what came next.