No litter on the streets, ever. A faint air of musical and cultural superiority, thanks to the city's beloved relation, Mozart. The city of The Golden Flute, gleaming white buildings, sensibly-shod ladies in lush furs and distant, snow-capped mountains. Mozart balls, a gold-foil wrapped, sickly-sweet marzipan and chocolate confection, emblazoned with the Great One's face, everywhere.

Her body was shapeless, colorless, her hair stringy and dirty. Desperation was faint in her doughy face, like an erased pencil mark. She looked tired and resigned.

His brown shirt, almost black with grease and sweat, was taut against fat. His red-rimmed eyes focused steadily on her face. Her flimsy shirt slipped from her pudgy shoulder as his hand grabbed and bunched the cheap material, the force of his grasp propelling her sideways. His other hand grabbed her arm roughly and squeezed; he shook her hard, without stopping. Her body flopped helplessly, like a sack of old clothes, head lolling, eyes wide.

Pedestrians averted their eyes and stepped off the curb to avoid contact. As if from behind glass, the couple was soundless. No horrified glances were directed their way; no words of protest were spoken, no police sirens faintly announced arrival. The couple was simultaniously avoided and ignored, like dogshit on the pristine street.

The black car swooped up suddenly, tires screeching to a halt. Engine running, a blond, pony-tailed man slammed his car door as he got out. He strode up to the couple, and with the calm of a Buddhist monk, grabbed the man's greasy brown shirt and pushed, forcing him to take a few drunken, stumbling steps backward. He then reared back and sharply, quickly punched the greasy man's face. Two hard hits. Blood oozed from the greasy man's nose as he collapsed gently to the sidewalk.

The shapeless woman backed away, wide eyes on the bleeding man. At the corner she turned and ran, clumsily, down the narrow side street.

The blond man briskly returned to his still-running car and sped away.

The greasy man rolled to a sitting position and wiped his face on his shirt, dirt mixing with blood.

Foot traffic, briefly arrested by the punches, continued in a wide circle around the sitting man.

The greasy man lurched to his feet and lumbered in an opposite direction from the woman's retreat.

A smear of blood marred the sidewalk, doubtless gone within the hour.