CARAVAGGIO CAME DON tairs to tcable, some turnips ill muddy. t came from a fire ly started. So  eps into t tenseness, so  in ures. Only  remained. Oto o ures.

    turn, realize he room.

    “ t s for too long.

    “alked .” “Is  you t   so. Kip and I are bot people are eccentrics, ric myself. ting someterrace, doesn’t  me out tood up from  te, wiping e forearm.

    “For your birto tell you a small story,” he said.

    S him.

    “Not about Patrick, okay?” “A little about Patrick, mostly about you.” “I still can’t listen to tories, David.” “Fat .” “talk to me   about  iculous. ting in reet at midnigrick  moved like a god in runk filled out and this greyness in him, he was a friendlier human.

    tonig looking foro it. One meal in tables and presented t briefly boiled into a soup. It o be anot meal, not o tairs. ,  into .

    “I can get you off t of tco terrace, one balustrade, .

    It looked to Caravaggio like a string of small electric candles found in dusty c too far in removing th her hands over her face.

    t of  er. ennis s on tone.

    “I kept finding dead she sapper said.

    till didn’t understand. Caravaggio bent over tter of lig  forty.

    “Forty-five,” Kip said, “tury. e ts noo see  , no.

    Caravaggio ed by tartling presence of ttles of red able.  drink any of it. All t iquette book in t and tatoes. o Kip’s and came o table.

    te and drank, ted t on tongues. turning silly in toasts to t forager”—and to tient. t