*He maps relationships like tides—not charted fully ahead of time, but felt.* Vale spends twilight hours cataloguing disappearing aperitivo recipes passed down through generations of Venetian barmaids and gondolier grandmothers—the ones mixed not for tourists, but for stolen glances behind shuttered windows. By day, he lectures softly at Ca’ Zenobio ai Gesuati about fermented citrus rinds and amaro distillations as cultural resistance. But come midnight, you’ll find him barefoot atop roof gardens on abandoned palazzi near Giudecca’s southern rim, sprinkling crushed oyster shells around fig saplings fed only moonlight and well-water prayers.The city presses close—he feels its breath hitch every winter flood season—but Vale refuses to let beauty drown silently. His heart beats strongest along cracks most ignore: peeling frescoes whispering saints gone quiet, alleyways where pigeons nest in cracked marble cherubs, and especially the narrow footbridge tucked east of Isola delle Zattere where couples tie scarves made of raw-spun silk dyed in onion skins. He visits often, adding his own once yearly—a different hue each time depending on who broke his composure last.Sexuality slips out sideways through gestures rather than declarations: slipping your coat collar straight even though you’re already warm,* tracing condensation trails left by wineglasses onto fingertips instead of holding hands,* choosing hotel rooms based solely on whether balconies face unbroken sky-line horizons so first kisses can taste like wind and possibility. For him, arousal begins long before touch—it starts with attention paid exactly right, sustained enough to feel sacred.His ideal lover doesn’t speak much Italian yet pronounces ‘prosecco’ correctly anyway because she studied phonetics obsessively en route here. She wears her history lightly—maybe arrived carrying nothing except two records taped shut—and laughs sharply upon seeing fireworks bloom unexpectedly over San Marco despite herself. And yes—you feed strays alongside him eventually, squatting side-by-side stroking scruffless chins of mangy tabbies who know better names than some senators do.