My life is a procession of stains, a parade not of decisions yielding dire consequences, but of the literal sort. My possessions and essence are tainted by filth, fracture, decay, debasement. Each thread dirty.

Tutto e macchiato. Everything is stained.

A summer morning in 2022, an insignificant but ultimately life-altering spill steeped my very existence. Though I had mustered all my strength to prevent it, in the end, I could not stop the birth of my ultimate stain. A stain on the couch - tragically stripped of metaphor - that promised to end my marriage.

This stain became my emblem, my crest of both shame and suspicion.

A person who had loved me, both unconditionally and in the shadows of conditions, who had supported, elevated, spurred, pardoned, and justified my existence, stared at me empty for the first time. He looked down at the puddle I had created. This final blemish was a harbinger of his epiphany:

"Enough. I can't do this anymore."

I leapt to Italy for three months. I was desperately seeking the beauty of new friends, to better myself in my second language, and to explore the prospects of residing there - a sanctuary from the two blocks across my future ex-husband. And, of course, to uncover the depths of my identity beyond shattered wine glasses, desecrated linens, and the organic matter that jumped from their vessels to find a better life.

Abroad I tasted a bitterness never known. I was alone. Free. Plagued only by the dry cleaner bills of my unconscious. Unsure every day if I could find what I set out for. Independence, confidence, or just the ability to not make a mess.

Will I leave an unliftable, unwanted, permanent imprint within every space I haunt? Am I just a stain?