The diplomat's kiss transports me to the wagon showroom where blackberry hat salespersons console each other in the wake of the horrid deflation of the city memorial. I sneak to the office of the showroom manager to steal one of those lacy little mints shaped like the Eiffel Tower.
When the procession begins, freezing glue weeps from the cracks in the walls. The dry nerves reach up from the butter tanks, gripping the ankles of the blackberry hat people; they stumble and go red-legged and powdered — like a very rich weave of spotted nut rind.