We wander from tent to tent for a while. I let my cravings guide me, and Sasha is mostly content to let me pick where we go. He stays plastered to me like a shadow, but a quiet one.
Little by little, his arms fill up with the things I pick. Fresh figs. Sun-warmed tomatoes. Clusters of bright green herbs.
At a cheese stand, the vendor’s wife coos over my belly. I don’t understand the words, but her warm smile needs no translation. She presses samples into my hands—soft cheese, hard cheese, cheese I’ve never seen before.
“Non posso,” I try to refuse, but she waves me off.
“She says it’s good for the babies,” Sasha translates.
I sag and accept it. “Grazie.”
The woman beams, winks, and walks off.
“Alright, fine, I’ll bite: when did you learn Italian?”
Sasha chuckles. “The Ardizzone fam
