Standing by a grove of cypress trees, I listen to the wind rushing them—their branches billow as my bangs jump from my forehead and blow back, pricking my eyes. 

Savory and sage graze my legs and catch the plaid of my skirt as lights flicker in the village below. I use my forearm to keep my hair out of my eyes, rest my arm there, and click my pinky and thumb nails together over and over and over again. 

His house is down from the church and I see his light on in the attic—it’s where he spends most of his time when he is home, where his narrow, wrought-iron bed sits with his broken-spine books; where creased papers and black ink stains tangle in among yellowed sheets; where his pillow, mashed like dough, waits against the headrest and those dainty porcelain cups, edges thin as eggshells, ringed with coffee grounds, clutter his bedside table. His cap is upside-down on the hook, jacket on the floor, suspenders writhe at his hips. Other lights in his house are on, so he won’t come tonight. 

The smell of earth and resin swells up in the rug-beating wind gusts. Beetles crawl around my shoes while worms burrow in the double dark of night and earth. Moonlight catches the back of my hand where boney shadows march in stiff lines—it reminds me of the marionette shows in the square when he and I would sit on our knees, throw counterfeit Roman coins and mauled flower tops for encores. I grab a fistful of my sweater’s collar and cinch it to my throat.

I stare out over the village before heading back to the cypresses. I scan the rolling hills to the south that hold the olive trees and kermes oaks, kestrels and pure white cliffs, then above to the stars. They look like they are all breaking, as if someone dropped a million tiny white plates on a black stone floor and they are all breaking at once.