The sky is dull and heavy humid.
We are sugar and snow lipped on the terrace on the almost last afternoon: my lips powdered with winter white meringue- the last of the bianchini- studded with shiny almonds like jewels; his are dusty from a flour rolled panino eaten just like that as bread can be.
I think of snow and of the icing-sugar dusted torta della nonna I ate yesterday.
The weather's really changed. He contemplates the sky.
Time to go home. I say and pop the last almond into his mouth like a gift.
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