BACK home, the living room was still filled with the dull thud of a mop being wrung lazily into a bucket. Dimitra, with her legs now crossed on the edge of the velvet couch, was slowly polishing her toenails in a deep maroon hue. That was Dimitra, another colour after another day. The television was on, playing an afternoon fashion segment, but her eyes weren’t really watching. They were narrowed in focus on the careful strokes she applied to her nails. The smell of acetone and polish ...