You step in "just to look."The ceiling looks back.. vaulted, shameless, pulling north light down your neck like a compliment.
It skips pleasantries.Talks you out of being sensible.
The terrace is already setting the table in your headlong candles, bare feet, somebody laughing into your shoulder.Sky for a ceiling. Trouble for dessert.
Inside, the kitchen is the kind that makes plans.Benches run long, the island asks for a bottle and an opinion.You stir slow, taste slower, pretend it's the recipe.
