"What do
you think? What are you thinking?"
Sun
washed warmly over the maroon and cream stripe of Cesca's
weskit. Her hair lifted from her brow; strands stirred behind
her as a curl of breeze ran over us in the gondola like a cherub's
banner.
Sun washed warmly over the cream and maroon stripe of the cafe tiles. Rose smiled at us.
Sun never
reached here.
The cream wafer was broken and maroon blood had splashed the aged
stone.