He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience.
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