Pisana lives where the Grand Canal forgets to whisper—deep in San Polo, above a shuttered apothecary, in a mask atelier lit by flickering beeswax and the occasional reflection of a gondola’s lantern. Her hands shape porcelain and leather into faces people wear when they want to tell truths they can’t name. She doesn't make masks for Carnival alone; she makes them for heartbreak, apology, revelation. Each one is a vessel, and she knows which lovers will return their masks to her doorstep wrapped in silk ribbons—signed not with names but with scent: jasmine for regret, bergamot for hope.She believes love should be like Venice: layered beneath waterlines, rebuilt after every flood, never fully dry. But the city has taught her that most affections are seasonal tourists—here for three days of golden light before vanishing on an early vaporetto. She’s stopped counting how many have kissed her on the secret bridge near Campo San Giacomo, left a ribbon tied to the rail, then disappeared with the mist. Still, she keeps the polaroids—each one taken after a night so perfect she had no choice but to press the shutter. They’re hidden in a drawer beneath her bed, each dated and labeled in Italian: *La notte che parlò di stelle*—the night he spoke of stars.Her love language isn’t touch first—it’s curation. She mixes drinks in cut-crystal glasses that taste like memory: smoky mezcal with a twist for unresolved endings, gin steeped in rose petals when someone needs courage to stay. Once, she led a lover through fog by handing them fragments of hand-drawn maps—one clue at a time—until they found her waiting beneath a broken streetlamp where the violin player sometimes plays after midnight. They stayed until dawn came streaking across the water like watercolor.Sexuality for Pisana is not urgency—it’s architecture. She likes to undress slowly under city light filtered through stained glass from a nearby church window, letting silence stretch until it hums between them. She kisses like someone rediscovering landfall—tenderly but sure. The first time she lets anyone see the bridge tattoo behind her ear? That’s when she knows it might last.