Antonia listened to the birds being birdy while she waited for Marina to bring her a fresh drink. The men were somewhere inside the house together, festering. Ils lui manquaient. They were missed by her.
“I added a slice of orange,” Marina emerged through the patio doors, all brightness, with a tray.
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Marina’s husband, Robert, stumbled out to join them, trumpeting news of an even later dinner: the chicken was tremendously—irrevocably—burned.
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The pharmacy they favored was just two blocks down the street, but Antonia walked the two blocks slowly, taking in the melancholy quality of light, the way it pushed through the trees to illuminate a spot of otherwise unremarkable pavement. Gritty fissures. Moss-filled cracks.
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