The Stolen Pen
By Solomon Taragin
Florence
When I’m feeling low, I like to go on long walks and eat brunch in cozy clothes—trying to feel warm inside and out. I also crave the company of my family, mostly because they’re the only people I can truly be myself around. No performance. Just ease.
I’m lucky my sister is studying in Florence this semester through NYU. She keeps me from getting low low low low…
Today I picked her up and we walked to brunch together. It was refreshing. And honestly? A good meal. I got eggs, toast, smoked salmon, juice, and hot tea. It felt very American—comforting, familiar, home-like.
Afterward, we wandered for a while and, embracing our idealized British lifestyle, decided to stop somewhere else for “Tea Time.” We found a fancy (slightly pretentious) hotel, but we figured we’d only be getting coffee, so our bank accounts would survive.
The setting made the obnoxiously overpriced drinks worth it. The hotel had a massive garden filled with grass, trees, and sculptures. It felt like we’d stepped into the gardens of Dorne from Game of Thrones. We took pictures beside the statues, mimicking their poses. Some were of rhinos and other (obese) animals, and we had way too much fun mirroring them.
I kept saying how one day I’d return with my dog. My sister rolled her eyes and called me crazy because, well, I don’t actually have a dog. But in my head? I absolutely do. I just haven’t met him yet. There’s a special breed called a mini-golden—it’s basically a golden retriever that stays puppy-sized forever. Baby golden retrievers are my favorite. I’m already picturing our walks together.
We finally sat down with our coffee, overlooking all the beauty, and for the first time all week, the stressful pit in my stomach and head started to fade.
At one point, my sister got distracted, emailing a professor about a paper on A Farewell to Arms, which happens to be one of my favorite books—but that’s beside the point…
As she was glued to her screen, I just sat. That’s really all I did. I looked around. Autumn had turned the leaves every shade of gold and crimson, and I admired it all quietly.
We stayed for another hour or so before heading home. I came back to my room, laid on my bed, and started typing this.
Oh—and the pen.
When the check came, the waiter brought out a very nice pen. I asked him, “What’s your policy on stealing pens?” and he smiled and said it was okay.
It was a beautiful pen. It wrote well. I couldn’t waste such a golden opportunity.
“My mom would have just taken it,” I laughed.
And honestly? If not for the coffee or the scenery or even the sisterly bonding—it still would’ve all been worth it for that perfect new pen.
