I have been thinking about the woman in a strawberry dress in Venice.
I was sitting in a café when I saw her pass. The whole street saw her pass. All heads turned to look at her, and the street rolled its winding body dotted with vendor carts to follow her, too.
She stopped at the corner, and swayed a little on her high heels. The sound of them clicking on the cobbles continued for a little longer, apparently oblivious to the fact that the source of its existence was not there anymore. The breeze crept along the edges of the creaking shutters.
She pulled a silver gun out of her bag.
The strawberry dress drifted to the ground with more grace than her body did.
I was sitting in a café when I saw her pass. The whole street saw her pass. All heads turned to look at her, and the street rolled its winding body dotted with vendor carts to follow her, too.
She stopped at the corner, and swayed a little on her high heels. The sound of them clicking on the cobbles continued for a little longer, apparently oblivious to the fact that the source of its existence was not there anymore. The breeze crept along the edges of the creaking shutters.
She pulled a silver gun out of her bag.
The strawberry dress drifted to the ground with more grace than her body did.
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