By night the streets of Limassol dissolved quickly to a haze of rich purples; tones of purple interrupted only every so often by the screams of street lamps, haloed in orange and pitching their light against the darkness like so many feathers thrown in violence against the wind.
The four of us walked unspeaking and in the morning one would be dead. A death to strangle whispers of friendship that had dared to raise their voice. And If we thought of anything at all that night, our thoughts must have been echoes of one another, each a question trailing behind our mirrored footsteps and falling silently to dissolve unaswered as snow upon forgotten fields. Why have they brought us here? Where will they take us?
Did we walk along a high street or waterfront? I don't remember. Yes, there were palm trees prostituting glimpses of the exotic and painting pools of darkness at their feet. Did this darkness hide unimagined dangers or do I dream that now, peering back through the haze of events? Do I add white dashes of eyes beneath the palm leaves as if retouching an ancient canvas? Were they there watching us then? Could any one of us have known the truth as the ship pulled away from the dock the next morning, roaring its horn against the waves like a injured animal and bidding Cyprus farewell.
*Working Title borrowed from B. Traven, to be returned safely once a more fitting and original title is found.
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