Maybe he shouldn’t use the diminutive, when he wrote Stella. The curves of the city were bleached white on the other side of the water. He loved the grand Mediterranean expanse. He loved the empty season.
The woolly clouds were moving fast. A golden retriever was leading his mistress up onto the graffitied rocks.
Johnny thought, Maybe Dear Stella, would be better. Maybe she’d like it better without that ita. Who could say?
Stella could.
He might have to go home and have a nap about it. No need to rush it. He’d had writer’s block since Don Quixote in metal mask and knee greaves fought the Knight of the White Moon, here on this sand. Quixote himself, in Barcelona, was knocked asunder on his horse Rocinante right here at this shoreline.
No. He felt in his bones Stellita was the word.
