the light of an orange peel
The Septima, Bogota's backbone, stretches from the red brick buildings of the better-off in the north to the slums of the south, snaking through clumps of offices, isles of housing complexes for secretaries and bureaucrats, straggling at calle 20, masquerading as the Caracas at calle 0 and diving into the real south, where streets are numbered in the negative and people live in squalor and own the best roasted chicken joints in town. Street 0 bothered her, though she couldn't say why. That there should be anything beyond didn't make sense. The bus stopped at 21 South (-21 South, said the sign) and she got off, a bottle of cheap Chilean wine in hand.He had washed and shaved. The apartment looked like it had been cleaned in a hurry, closets looming with junk piled helter-skelter, tattered novels and soiled laundry panicking to get back out onto the rug, where they belonged. She kissed him on the cheek and he blushed. She blushed back.