Aden, sprawled in the overstuffed corner chair, wearing a pale blue skirt, flattens her sneaker soles against the wall and smiles at something Sophos has said. He must know everything by now. Sophos loves Aden, like all complex people, and vends peace like any real follower of truth and time. They talk about April.
After the concert, Aden walks back in rain.
April stands perfect, dimlit Monet in the center of the parking lot, sad and soft-smiling beneath a very green umbrella. Weather like this, everything’s impressionistic, muddled and pretty; the whole wide world, if nothing else, aesthetically tolerable as hell.
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