The Lord of the Dance walks through Emerald City with a painted face – right side black, left side white. Only Simon sees where the faces meet in the middle, a thin grey seam running down his head to split his lips and cut his own throat.
He fingers spare shards while he watches the can crush the glittering puddle of pulverized glass, and imagines carving into that line himself – releasing dark blood from the pale skin confining it, a sacrifice to the same heaven the mick mocks with the cross over his heart.
But not yet.
The wop still breathes.