As she watches Brian scrutinise the guidebook for Siena, Sarah notices the veins in his arms. She pulls her sunglasses a little down the bridge of her nose and watches his muscles flex and slacken as he turns the pages. A group of tourists dressed in cloth caps and brandishing cameras come into view and Sarah hurriedly shoves the glasses back up her nose to cover the gathering blackness around her left eye.

Brian looks up from his book. What a lousy way to start their honeymoon, he thinks. He wishes for the hundredth time that Sarah hadn't started that argument last night over dinner. It had been such an idyllic setting with the veranda perched on the edge of the Tuscan hills, a moment of perfection spoiled by Sarah's clumsiness. Why did she always have to make such a mess wherever she went? Knocking over that jug of wine. All over his freshly pressed Chinos.

A flurry of pigeons lands in the centre of the Piazza but the rumble of construction emanating from the church face disturbs them and they scatter like ripples on a pond. Drawn by the flapping of wings, Sarah stops looking at Brian and watches the birds disappear into the clouds. This is Sarah and Brian's first trip to Italy. They had arrived two days ago into a bustling Rome airport, the air too humid to bear. They'd barely had time to sit down since the wedding and jet lag hung around them like woolen blankets.

They had met at the Architects Ball in New York. Sarah had been aware of Brian staring at her from the moment she entered the lobby. He spent the whole evening teaching her to waltz. His crystal blue eyes never leaving her face, his face so close, she could see the black rim encircling the iris. They had been together nearly three months when Brian went away for a Conference. Sarah, who knew how stressful his job was becoming, decided to let herself into his apartment to prepare him his favourite meal. She was putting the final touches to the table by lighting the candles when she heard the front door slam shut.

"Hello, darling," she called out.

Brian came into the kitchen, glanced at the table and then at the pile of dishes in the sink.

"Jesus, Sarah. Look at this mess," he snapped as he propped his briefcase on the table, disturbing the place setting.

"Oh, its okay." Sarah said. "I'll wash in a bit. Look, I've made you your favourite." She picked up the bowl of steaming pasta she had just dished out and offered it to him. "I donÕt want your fucking pasta," Brian yelled, knocking the bowl out of her hands.

Sarah watched in amazement as the bowl of pasta crashed to the floor and when she looked back at him he struck her across the face. She had no memory of landing on the floor. All she could remember was him holding a pack of frozen peas to her cheek.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, oh my God." Brian had said, again and again, as he helped her up from the floor. "I had such a dreadful time at the Conference and my boss yelled at me for some stupid thing. I know that's no excuse, but I am so sorry, darling. Please forgive me."

Sarah couldn't believe what had happened and spent the new few weeks trying to make sense of it. Then things seemed to settle down and the incident was never mentioned, but when Sarah dinged the car in the parking lot of the supermarket a couple of months later, Brian lost his temper again. When he saw the damage to the bumper and front wing, he threw Sarah so hard against the wall of the garage that she broke her arm. Again, Brian blamed the pressure at work.

"Then leave," Sarah had begged. "Leave the job or I'm leaving you."

So he found another job and the change in him was unbelievable. Seven months later, Brian proposed to Sarah on a visit to Paris. She did not hesitate in accepting.

And oh, what a wedding. Even though it was early September you could still smell the heat in the air. Wisps of cloud caressed the churchÕs spire and pigeons twisted and tangled in the air as they swooped for position. The autumn sun fell through the stained-glass windows onto the stone floor, illuminating Sarah's possession down the aisle and all the time she could feel Brian's eyes on her, the intensity and weight of his gaze pulling her closer and closer. At the reception, he'd held her so close, spinning her around and around until they were almost out of control, her dress fanning out in an arc of white light. The whole time his face so close to hers, his eyes holding hers. Was it her imagination or were the black rims of his irises becoming thicker?

It is midday in Siena. The Piazza bells begin to chime and Sarah looks up at the church face. A shadow falls across the map as Brian reaches out to touch her shoulder. Sarah flinches and accidentally releases one corner of the map. The breeze catches in the creases, rips the other corner out of her grip. Brian leaps up to capture the flimsy paper as it loops and dips but then another gust of wind lifts it beyond his reach. They watch as the map tumbles through the air again and again, rotating in the wind around the church spire until it is out of site.