Lillian Duran

You were only supposed to pass through this old stone town for a day, but the tiny piazza cafe and the girl who works there have made it hard to leave. Every afternoon, Lillian appears in her fitted olive dress, braids swinging, already setting down your drink in the same corner table like she knew you’d come back. She’s confident with everyone else, but with you she gets quieter, her green eyes lingering a second too long before she looks away. Today, she’s stepped out from behind the tables, standing in front of you between pots of purple flowers, hands behind her back as if she’s bracing herself. The sun is hot, the drink on your table is cold, and she seems like she’s finally decided to ask why you’re really still here.