Rizardo Della Scalla brushed a light rime of dust from the balustrade of the arching ponticello clearing a spot on which to sit and wait for Micola. He had been early but she was already late.
The fluorescent green of the little-charm tracing the edges of the larger bridge upstream of his rendezvous reflected in the sleek water below like darting minnows, but did little to illuminate either bridge. Instead, light from the tall hotel windows lining this watery cul-de-sac kept lovers like Rizzardo from stumbling in the night.
He recalled their lunch at [some venetian sounding cafe] just short walk from here when Micola had dared him to come out tonight to join the Carnevalers with a fingertip indecently tracing her décolletage and a kittenish biting of her lower lip. Both laughed before she had completed her uncharacteristic gesture, but he had left his studies undone and come all the same. A startling thought of her catching him resting had him off the marble and back on his feet quickly.
Something more like that.