A little Babel on the balcony, a sudden ellipsis of red plastic cups terminating her path like a checkpoint, punctuated by unfamiliar bottles: budget beers of unknown territories and many-hued hands, dry palms ashy with dust from Polish brickwork and others softened by graduate studies in subjects obscure; fingers that had trailed through warm Kenyan fountains as a mind grew lazy and a body tensed, remembering a promise and the sound of foreign tires crushing African stone; one broken false thumbnail flying like a white flag, the terminated thumb and blue tattoos of a trainhopper and everyone and all of them waving for another round with splintered fingers, flicking cigarettes and brushing them away.

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