The jagged outlines of her silhouette, it would appear on each building, momentarily ducking down each narrow alley only to reappear on the next.

The jagged outlines as projected by the light of a Pierrot moon as she runs down the narrow cobblestone street.

It was coming down and, no, I had not noticed. The sound of her heels echoing, going down each alley her shadow refused.

Can we get that sound back?

The flamenco band that was playing Peppe’s right before she said, "We must talk."

Can we get that melody, that sound back?

The rain, her tears, the still secret paper being torn.

Ah, my conception of you, the blues. I was wrong on both accounts. It had all been on her mind longer than she would admit to. I got a brief glimpse several nights before. A cheap red and not enough food. Again, her dream of the beast on the path who devoured her every Valentine’s day.

Coco, don’t lay there looking so sad, lips abused by kisses.

Prego, no bacci labria.

Go back to sleep, there is at least a year until you are eaten again.

Now, she runs through the narrow streets, a cobblestone path through a city that never abandoned the hour of the tears. Those heels, she stumbles. A tragic misstep on the road to desire.

She is on her knees by the fountain, under the one working light put there to cause the death of shadows.

Kiss me.

Now, with her heart broken and the anger at its core, she has never looked so beautiful. In this newfound radiance, she almost won.

I want a style, but not a pattern. I will leave her alone.

I spend the first few days painting a still life of the dominos, there on the table, exactly as we had left them our last game.