The doctor told him the figure-eight configuration on his nose was cancer. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “Italy,” Ruby said, by way of making things better. The sun as enemy was a concept to get used to. Ruby worshiped it. Dave bitched about tourist in pastels, but envied them their cluelessness in their too white sneakers. Ruby lived life allegro. Wanted the full experience of a Mediterranean summer. They stayed in an old villa. Chipped paint on the walls, oversized works of art in gold, baroque frames. “So Italian,” she said. She booked various activities for them to participate in. They went to a farm where they picked vegetables. “Goddamn sun,” he said fingering what used to be a distinct patrician nose. “Such a great Italian hobby!” she said, with her back to him where freckles broke out like little burnished pennies. She turned toward him in the carrot patch. He saw the sheen of sweat dotting the downy hair on her upper lip. She pointed to the first she would pick. She tugged on the green, feathery vegetation. It came out looking wan and thin as a pencil. Her bottom lip curled. He felt cold. Took it as a sign.