The Salt Pans – Part 2: Evening Tide

"Please," said Giulia. "Yes."

The kiss tasted of salt and warm evening. Andrea's hand rose to the side of her face and she leaned into it, laughing softly. Behind them the water shone coral and gold. A heron lifted off the shallows. The windmills stood silent, outlined black against the glowing sky.

"I have a house on the dyke," he said. "It has a terrace. It has wine. You can say no to either."

"I'd like both."

They walked slowly along the narrow causeway between the pans, her hand in his, with the last light spilling across the water on both sides. The air was warm and smelled of brine. Their footsteps crunched on salt.

The house was small and whitewashed, with thick walls and blue shutters, and a terrace that looked straight out over the lagoon. He lit a lantern and poured two glasses of cold white. The stars came out one by one over the pans.

"I'm nervous," said Andrea, laughing at himself.

"So am I."

"Good. Then we are equal."

They kissed again on the terrace, slowly, then inside, in a low cool room with a wide bed and a woven blanket. They undressed by lantern light, laughing at salt-stiff sleeves and a stubborn boot, and under the blanket their love-making was gentle and unhurried, with the sound of the sea and the whisper of the shutters for company. The night was warm. The windmill creaked softly outside, turning in the breeze.

On Sunday morning her bag stood by the door. Giulia sat on the terrace in his shirt, a cup of coffee in her hands, watching the first light turn the pans from silver to gold.

"The harvest runs until September," said Andrea. "After that, the pans rest. It is very quiet. Very beautiful. I think a photographer might like it."

"I think a photographer might," said Giulia. She put down the cup. "And I think she's already decided."

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