Thomas Sharpe was the man my father never would have dreamed would be the one I would marry. My mother even more so. They both are probably in heaven, weeping at the sight of their daughter marrying an English man. But when you're close to 40, there are very few willing to talk to me much less court me.

We met at a plaza where artists were sketching people willing to pose for them or painting the surrounding buildings. The air smelled of fresh herbs, and joyous laughter bubbled and fizzed in the crisp spring air. He stood out against the warm pale tones of Milan like an inkblot on parchment.

"Beautiful," he said in Italian, both of us admiring the artist's hurried hand across the sketch pad of his model, a young woman with a curvaceous figure and wavy chocolate hair sat with the sleeve of her scarlet dress draped suggestively off one shoulder.

"Yes, she is," I responded and instinctively hugged my lean frame and shook my head slightly as the breeze blew my long dark hair in front of my face. I moved to walk away when he asked in stained Italian, "Do you draw?" I smiled at his efforts. Many foreigners would assume all of us spoke English and few would try to learn our language. I admired his courage and willingness to make a mistake. "I do not," I replied in English and he seemed relieved. "I'm an inventor but I do draw occasionally. May I sketch you?" I scoffed in shock and turned my eye back to the beautiful model. "Why not her?"

He glanced at her before turning back to me. "You seem to have more of a story to tell," he said with a tone I couldn't quite place. He placed his jacket on the ledge of the plaza's fountain. He had a small notepad in his hands and even smaller pencil. "How would you like me?" I asked, lowering myself onto his jacket. "However you'd like," he responded. I began to fidget under his intense gaze and started to tinker with my clothes. If I tuck the extra fabric of my shirt here...if I crossed my legs like this...God, I'm a ridiculous old woman.

"I'm Thomas," he said when he glanced up from his notepad. "Enola," I murmured, trying to not to move. We sat in silence and it almost felt like I can feel the light tracing of the pencil on my body. I resisted the urge to shiver. The sound of the water lapping was soothing, and I was grateful I chose a position that allowed me to view the passerby. Yes, this handsome man is drawing me. I'm still worth looking at. At least, to him.

"What is your age?"

He chuckled at my question.

"Not as young as you might think."

"Tell me, signore. It's the least you can do since you asked such an odd request of me."

He hesitated for a moment.

"Trenta."

Thirty? Not as young as I thought after all.

"And you, signora?"

"Thirty-six," I cringed at my English. It sounded like I said "dirty sex". "What brought you to Milan, Thomas?"

A strand of hair blew across my face and stayed on the top of my nose. I tried to discreetly wiggle it off without him seeing but he was already on his feet. He took the strand between his fingers and moved it back.

"Business," he said politely before sitting back down. "I hope I'm not taking you away from anything, Enola."

I smiled at the way he said my name.

"Not at all," I chuckled. "I have too much free time on my hands and few to spend it with."

He nodded. "What about your husband?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "If I had a husband, do you think he would be okay with a stranger drawing my figure?"

His eyebrows furrowed. "Is this not a common pastime? Since I've been here, that's what I see many people doing."

He's still a child at heart, it seems.

"To capture a person's image is to capture a part of their soul. Their essence. Many visitors come to capture Milan's soul and its people."

His hand stilled. "You're allowing me to take a piece of your soul?"

I met his eye. "I am."

He continued to sketch but less fervently. "Thank you for explaining that to me. This is most embarrassing," he laughed. "I can stop if you'd like."

"No," I said a little too hastily. "Please do not be embarrassed. I would like to see your finished piece."

After a few moments, he brought the pad over to me. He didn't draw my body at all. He made my face look like there were faint gears, screws, coils, belts, prongs, and many other pieces I could not name were underneath the surface of my skin. It wasn't a masterpiece but it's unlike anything I've seen before.

"You don't like it," he stated, disappointment in his tone.

"No, I do. I've just...I can see you are an inventor." I hoped his mood would lighten but there was still doubt in his eyes.

"Come, have dinner with me," the words slipped off my tongue. I want to know more about this man who draws with metal. I don't have the time to wait like girls do, waiting to be pursued and summoned. "I would like to know more about what you do."

He hesitated. "I didn't come here alone."

"Oh," I slowly rose and picked up his jacket.

"My sister is with me."

I smiled. "She may come too. I'd like to meet her."

He smiled back but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

A/N: I would love to know your thoughts and feedback! Postings will continue to be few and far between at times due to school but I'll continue to try to write in my free time. :)