Fake Diamonds Scrape the Sky
By Martina Zanetti
There is a floating cafe near the old port. Ten plastic tables on a raft, half-asleep in the sun. I sit alone and let the wind ruffle my hair.
Anita blows me a kiss from the bar.
“Tanqueray and Tonic?”
Little waves go up the canal. A yellow glimpse. A candy wrapper drifting in the water below.
“What are you reading today?” Anita sets my glass on the table, swift bubbles swimming up, like the silver fish of San Pedro.
The Russians rise slowly. A girl wearing a saffron yellow shirt and matching sunglasses dances her way through the tables. She falters soundlessly on her pumps. Plastic green pumps and red lipstick. She is a rich, saturated image of a parrot. Her cell phone cries one time. “Hi, baby”—she waves a bee away—”are you coming over?”