Cherry Liqueur
- BAY
- Feb 13
- 2 min read
The Goodbye Gift
She was tightening the last strap on her knapsack when he stepped out from behind the hotel desk, a small wrapped bottle in his hand. Morning light spilled through the tall doors, catching the dust in the air. There was a faint scent of coffee.
“You’re heading out early,” he said, not accusing, just noticing.
“I ride better before the heat,” she answered, though they both knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
The Cherry Liqueur Gift Bottle
He nodded once, then held out the bottle—dark glass, sealed with a velvet red ribbon. “A little something…for you to think of me,” he said. “Our cherry liqueur. Made from the Marostica cherries that grow near here. My family has been making it for… longer than I should admit.”
She took it carefully, surprised by its weight, by the warmth in his eyes, and the honesty in his voice. “I can’t take this,” she started.
“You can,” he whispered. “And you should. Consider it a thank‑you… for letting the rain bring you here.”
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For a moment, neither of them moved. The square outside was still empty, the chessboard tiles pale in the early sun. She cushioned the bottle in her bag, feeling the gentle caress from the velvet ribbon.
“Maybe you’ll come back,” he said—half statement, half question.
“Maybe,” she answered, but she already knew she would.
She swung her leg over the bike, and soon the engine rumbled to life. As she pulled away, she caught one last glimpse of him in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her go with that quiet, steady warmth she hadn’t expected to find in Marostica.
The weight of the bottle settled against her back as she rode, and she could almost already taste the cherry liqueur.
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