Blood Orange
“She stepped inside. “Micah?”Next door a dog yapped.“Micah, it’s Dana. You left your door open.”It was an old-fashioned, railroad-style apartment. The front door opened into a tiny anteroom, which opened into an old kitchen floored with swirls of yellow, orange, and blue linoleum. A sash window over the sink was open, and from the sill a yellow cat with a bell around its neck observed her.“Micah?”She looked into the living room.Was it too late to turn around and go home? Perhaps pack a bag for h...erself and move to some far desert town, change her name, and find hard work, brain-numbing work? Eventually the desert sun would burn the memories out of her.In Micah’s palazzo in Florence there had been paintings and pictures everywhere. Between the back of the couch and the wall, canvases had been filed on their sides, tacked to temporary wooden frames. There were paintings in the bathroom and on the back of the front door. The main room had been a montage of color and images. Nothing matched, but everything in the space seemed to belong there.MoreLess
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