The detergent washed away the malaise, they now smelt of oranges and lilies and over-ripe plums put together. She pulled them from the washing line as the rain and gust tugged at each other. They fell on the mosaic, got caught in the fence, fell on the grass, and then they gathered in her arms. Still warm with the remains of the sun, still crisp from the remains of the detergent and damp-stained with the waters from above. I closed my eyes, picked one of them up and buried my face into the cornucopia of that aroma. I knew with my eyes closed, I knew that it was white. It smelt white.
It smelt like Paras did that wonderful noon in