Violane, my French lover, trained her lips on the third violin, whose legs spilled into the aisles, ruffles running up and down his shirt. She played a mean viola even on nights when she felt vile. That night she rained a valley of tears, her blossom dewy, her phial spilling its sticky orange juice. Such a beautiful name, but it means rape and hate in French. That night rain fell into the kitchen while I prepared my favorite penne sprinkling my homemade herb mix into my sauce and then emptying a green vial of love, an aphrodiasac, surefire, according to my Austrian herbalist, who told me, "Add it to your dish, then vait a vile." That night after Violane left me, I found a lovely penny caught in the crevice of the floorboard and put it in my pocket for luck, and that was just the beginning.
Luca Penne
lives in New Hampshire and builds timber-frame barns for a living. His work has appeared in many journals, including Furnace Review, 2 River View, Otoliths, and others. He has an MFA from Southwestern Missouri State, where he won the Emerson-Tate Award for his writing.