The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

      Justine took the stairs to her room two at a time. She needed to run. Running was her emotional equalizer. When she was stressed or worried or angry, it cleared her vision and released muscle tension; when she was happy, the run heightened her joy, her energy, opening up possibilities. She slipped into her black running shorts, remembering how violated she’d felt on her run that first morning in Cairo when a stranger’s hand had reached between her legs. After that incident, she’d worn only loose clothing on the streets of Egypt.

      Justine started up the pathway leading across the Fiesole hills, behind the Villa San Michele, and upward into town. At first her pace was uneven, her heart beating wildly. Wild sweet peas, poppies, and orchids reached for her ankles, and the scent of lemon and mulberry trees filled her lungs. Honeysuckle and wild roses clung to terraces nearby. Glorious, she thought. Such beauty inevitably rested Justine’s life in perspective. Her heart slowed and her pace evened. She knew that life was uncertain, and wondered why she had to be reminded.