Very slowly the details of that farewell faded, steadily shifting from a rich midnight blue to a pale morning sky. One day she realized she had spent only half of every minute thinking of Antonio and of that moment and what he had said and how he had touched her face. Another day it was every third minute, then every quarter hour, then every hour when the bells of Santi Maria e Donato rang. The measuring of time like this made her wonder if the bells wherever he was rang in the same way. The thought of its being different hurt.
