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
warmly over the cream and maroon stripe of the cafe tiles. Rose
smiled at us.
The cream wafer was broken and maroon blood had splashed the aged