Behind her, chrysanthemums open their yellow eyes. Beneath the shadow of an olive tree a tour guide points to a row of tombs where the names of governors cling to granite. We walk among the procession of cameras, among the constant clearing of throats that sounds like Amen. Each brief eulogy moves us from tomb to tomb. In the kitchen she sprinkles flour over white fists of dough.
Cayenne stains the countertop, butter hisses in a frying pan.
After her husband leaves, she sits near a window struggling with her stockings, fastening her story like a satin blouse. She puts powder around her eyes, stares deeper into the empty pane, watches rain rattle glass. Outside, the sky purples like a bruise.