Rizardo Della Scalla brushed a light rime of dust from the balustrade of the wide arching ponticello clearing a clean spot on which to sit and wait for Micola. He had been early but she was already late. The iridescent green of the little charm tracing the edges of the larger bridge upstream of his own rendezvous reflected neatly off the sleek water below but did little to illuminate either bridge. Warm light from the hotel windows lining the canal and the occasional lamp kept lovers like Rizzardo from stumbling. He was far enough away from the Carnevalers to hear the water sliding under him; close enough to make out the din. A startling thought of her catching him resting had him off the marble and on his feet quickly.
This turned into more of a mess as I tried to clean it up. Funny.