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Relics, Rabbits, and Tuscan Reds by Slip Wolf

I have a seat at the cafe and order a frizzante water, recorder hid under a napkin as I wait. The sun is getting lower over the Piazza del Campo, dragging the massive shadow of the Torra del Mangia, the tower of Siena's town hall, across the open court. The shadow of the great tower is like a sundial's hand ticking away the remains of the day.

Waiting is always the hard part.

A glass of Chianti would settle my nerves, which rarely need the help. I've been in hotter spots both literal and figurative in my years on the job, but never has finding the right place at the right time been so difficult or so worth the trouble.

I get a drop of water on my whiskers and shake it off. The heat is ebbing slightly; my brown pelt is still warm from the cloud-peeking sun. I look like any other female weasel out here on this square in a quaint little city in the heart of Tuscany, but it's doubtful he'd recognize me. The bylines on all the articles I've published have no photos, and my face is hard to turn up with a Google search. Soon though I may be famous. And earning a serious payday, can't forget that part.

With all the difficulty putting his clues together, the encrypted coordinates to the bus-station down in Rome, and the coded graffiti on the shuttered shops in Bologna, I should be tired right now, but I'm giddy. A one hour window is all he's granting. His choice, his rules. It's all I'll need.

Four ways into the Campo, can't keep eyes on them all. People of all species, sizes, and ages move in and out with consistency. I don't have any description. I check to make sure my camera bag is still tucked between my feet. It's doubtful he'll let me take a photo, but I need my kit close.

A snap to my right flicks my ear. A neighboring table has a rabbit taking photos of the Torra, and I realize my contact may assume he's my photographer. For the fourth time, I start to worry. Can I ask this rabbit to put his camera away? There are several others with equipment, including a lion couple four tables over who are comparing shots while pointing to various features up and down the tower. Only this rabbit, though, is snapping away with abandon.

The time is now. I stand the three bread sticks up in a pyramid as requested. The camera snaps as it turns my way. I try not to growl. "Please don't photograph me. In fact, could you give that a rest?"

The rabbit, white-furred with a Trixies band shirt and two blue studs on his left ear, lowers the camera for a second and gives me a baleful blue eye. "I'm testing this out. Just got this DSLR. I don't mean to annoy you."

I frown, and my tail steals a quick lash, betraying how on edge I am. A minute overdue. I can't have gotten this wrong. "I'm not annoyed. I just...would rather not be photographed."

The camera slips low, and the rabbit's face gets long, ears like de-masted flags. "Not even if I can bring out that cute nose of yours?" He weakly tries to smile, blush bordering on a cringe as though uncertain if he's being lame.

Despite myself I have to resist a smile. I've been told I have a cute nose before. Many parts of my anatomy have been given stars, to be honest, but the nose was a favorite. "I think you'll remember this nose well enough without a photo, don't you?"

The rabbit sighs and shrugs, guilt rising on his face. "Well, I don't want to bother you because you're clearly waiting for somebody, but I can prove you photograph well." He fiddles with the switches on his camera, turns it around to hand it to me. I don't take it at first, looking around first to see if anybody had reacted to my bread-stick pyramid yet. Nothing. People wander out of the nearby enotecca with bottles of wine and peruse the souvenir stands for carved sculptures.

If he has photos of me...

I scan through a slideshow with the arrow button. There are shots of the tower, shots of the square, people milling about, and...me. A sunbeam falls across the water glass on my table as I stare into it, my fur almost gold against my brown t-shirt's collar, jeans creased as my feet self-consciously clutch the camera between them. Next shot is me again, wider angle, standing out against the throng of patio-diners. The final is from an extremely high angle, almost looking at the wisp of fur standing atop my head. I look up to the only obvious vantage point. He'd shot me from the tower.

Just like that he's sitting across from me. "Thanks for your diligence," he says with a toothy smile. "Good looks only gets a reporter so far, right?"

I sigh with relief. All that effort hadn't been in vain after all. So this is Updike, the King of Hearts. "Much to my dismay," I deadpan. "Hello, Updike."