The water was a powdery blue and the horizon was met by faded pink and purple. The sun golden and piercing, perfectly round. A few small boats lingered in the distance on the glassy water. The sun hid partially behind a thin strip of cloud before hitting the water. The pink seemed to invade the sun, turning the gold into a pinkened hue, as he lowered into the water his shape distorted. Lower and lower and smaller and smaller and less round until it was gone and all that was left was a bright pink cloud carved out of the sky. A few clouds carelessly lingered wistfully as though da Vinci had casually stroked the sky. The colors were perfect to her and she thought no paint could compare. No picture could do justice the brilliance of the freshly set Sicilian sun. This was what writers traveled to see — true serenity manifested before her eyes. Eyes that had previously chosen to see the dirt on every tile. Something about the cotton candy like sky calmed her inhibitions. This was as close to perfection as she could imagine. It was not as colorfully profound as the sunsets shed known growing up in San Diego. Not as intense or far reaching. The colors were concentrated but soft and never more than 2 or 3 per sunset. It was like a man and woman coming together, still distinctly themselves but forming the perfect picture of pink and blue. Cloud and sky. Until the clouds gently disappeared and the sky began to darken as the time since the Suns departure grew.
