Argostoli, Cephalonia

Mrs Amerijian dresses in mourning night, is of an uncertain age, though still possessed of a sharp-edged beauty. Her dead husband, it is said, was Armenian, her own origin indistinct. Solitary, she frequents cafés where she sips coffee, aperitifs, wine. Mr Branston, a retired teacher, is suspicious, unsure that Amerijian is even a real name. Her fathomless brown eyes make him dream of love again.



A League of Lizards at My Table

A giant lizard peers beady-eyed out of the red plastic bowl in the sink. Other giant lizards have mounted kitchen surfaces where they rear or recline in stately poses. More giant lizards, bellies slung low, saunter in from the bathroom. Scales shimmer in a vivid farrago of greens, blues, yellows; tongues flicker out, probe, taste the air. In unison, the giant lizards start to sway, then suddenly all are dashing about, swirling in a mad psychedelic scramble.  

An alternative. The giant lizards are some sort of alternative.
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