Biancaneve Michaela A. Gabriel She hurries past my café window, sleeves too long, buttons ready to burst, an Italian Snow-White, hair slick and black. She tucks a strand behind her ear, eyes closed briefly against a low sun. Even the flies stop buzzing, a drowsy bee forgets about its stinger, droplets of lemonade dry on my table. Around the corner, men pause for a moment, irritated that she didn't even smile, that she gave them no reason for forbidden dreams. |