Your photos, cartoonizedinto a printable book.

the first night, the booth at the back, the only place still serving — one slice between us, and everything we had not said yet about the trip.

sunday morning. six blocks down pennsylvania avenue, the bike-lane chevrons still wet from the night, the capitol smaller than i expected.

he had read about the obelisk since he was twelve. it was, he said, smaller than the book made it sound. the moon was still up.

the photo we took because nobody had asked us to. we were behind the metro, the orange railing, and we both squinted on the same count.

the exhibit asked, in white chalk on a black wall, what war is this? — and we did not, then, have an answer that fit on a wall.

the lawn at the capitol, after lunch. the wind off the tidal basin came in long and cold and he, briefly, was the loudest thing on the grass.

the old post office, late afternoon, in matching jackets we had not planned on matching — yellow puffer, pink hat, two strangers' building behind us.

the last thing of the day, before either of us said it was the last thing of the day. her hand on my wrist, the watch face cool, the room we paid too much for.

monday morning. he asked where the breakfast was. we ordered one slice from the same place. he ate two, and i did not pretend to be surprised.

Dolce Razzo, eleven o'clock, the only ice-cream shop in dc with a name in italian. she ordered for both of us. we walked back the long way, and she taught me the word atardecer.