The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle

the church. I comment on how beautiful it is with its Cyclops eye, but Billy just looks at me sideways. A gust of wind comes up as we sit down.
    â€˜The weather,’ Kirk announces when he and Henry join us a few minutes later, ‘is supposed to get better.’
    â€˜Oh right! When? In the next millennium? After the current ice age ends?’
    The wind has gotten stronger and now, despite the heaters, it is cold. Billy hunches down into her coat, reaches for her wine glass, and shakes her head in disgust. In the half-hour since we left the bridge, she has become progressively snarkier.
    I don’t know Billy that well, in fact, I barely know her at all, but I’m beginning to suspect she likes a little excitement. Prefers things spiced up. Mixed and stirred. And I think she hoped that after I’d snapped at her on the Ponte Vecchio, I’d wind myself into a real temper tantrum. Perhaps attack her in a wild and illogical fashion for being six foot tall. Maybe she thought I’d burst into tears and declare my unbridled jealousy for her perfect body. Announce that I lusted for her. Or for the woman next door. Who knows? I don’t actually think Billy would be picky. But I do think, as I watch her toying with the edge of the ashtray that, for just a second, under that rock, she thought she saw something interesting. Something she might poke with a stick. She was hoping, I think, for some fireworks to light up the night, and now she’s sulking because I’ve really let her down.
    The breeze gusts, making the fairy lights dance, and I put my gloves on. One’s bright blue and one’s bright green, and when he sees them, Henry winks. He has a gigantic scarf wrapped twice around his neck and the end of his nose is red, as though he’s either drunk or getting a cold. We could move inside, of course, but there’s an unspoken agreement that that would be seriously wimpish, so instead we brave it out. Only Kirk doesn’t seem to care about the weather. Wrapped in his black overcoat, his body temperature is apparently static.
    â€˜The clocks go forward next week,’ he says, reaching for the bottle of Chianti we’ve ordered and filling his own glass, then mine and Henry’s. ‘So I think we should have a celebration. To mark the official start of summer. Regardless. On Sunday.’
    â€˜What? Put roses in our hair and dance around a maypole?’ Billy’s drinking white wine, as usual, but she places her hand over the rim of her glass anyways, as if she’s afraid Kirk will turn it into rosé.
    â€˜I think Mary would look very fetching with roses in her hair,’ Henry says.
    â€˜I’m allergic to roses. They make me sneeze.’
    â€˜Mary, Mary. Quite contrary.’ Billy takes out a cigarette, making a big deal of fiddling with the package. Then she says suddenly, ‘Oh I forgot. Something happened today.’
    â€˜What?’ Henry asks. ‘The sun rose in the west?’
    Billy smiles. She slides her eyes around the table. ‘A priest came to the door,’ she says. ‘Of our apartment.’
    Kirk raises his eyebrows. ‘And?’
    â€˜Well,’ Billy shrugs, lights the cigarette and cups it with her hand. ‘Since he was already inside, I thought he had to be looking for the old lady downstairs.’
    Kirk stares at her, waiting. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he says finally, ‘he wasn’t? This sure is a cliffhanger, Bill.’
    Billy ignores him. ‘He said he was looking for a Mrs Warren,’ she announces.
    I have never told Billy my married name, and, suddenly, my mouth feels uncomfortably dry. I reach for my glass and start to ask when this happened, exactly, but I don’t get the chance, because Henry is being witty again.
    â€˜That Mrs Warren,’ he asks, ‘doesn’t she have a profession?’
    â€˜Oh I wouldn’t be so Shaw,’ Kirk says.
    Billy waggles her