The colors are sappy and the perspective is all wrong. She smells the burnt coffee and wonders how a place can keep customers coming back with crap like that. Looks into her own mug and a drowning fly doesn’t notice. Flags down the waitress and orders a replacement…noting the lipstick on the rim, just in case they try to give her the same cup again. Flies, dirty things. She returns her gaze to the wall and smiles. Noting her hand on Simon’s head, remembering the feel of his unwashed hair between her fingers. Getting angry at him (even now) for not keeping himself clean. Pulling the hair sharply, jerking his head, his silent wince, water at his eyes. Her warning glance. The soft gasp of the vendor. Not caring. A dirty kid is a dirty kid. He should know better. The goddamned vendor frowned, but sold her the apples. She remembers THAT. Made the best damned apple pie in the world that night. She stares at the mural, and wonders who the artist is. He caught her on a good day - her apple pie was a fucking hit.