There’s a certain way afternoon light tumbles into a narrow Italian street, glancing off plaster walls before it settles into the quieter corners. In Interlude, Italy, Bill pauses the day at that exact moment — just as the buildings soften, the awning catches a last warm note of orange, and the courtyard begins to cool into blues and violets.

Two figures lean back in green café chairs, half in shadow, half in reflection. They aren’t posed; they’re caught mid-rest, letting the world drift by just beyond the picture plane. Loose, confident brushwork carries the eye from the cool tree shadow at left, through the bright burst of foliage in the center, and over to the quiet conversation tucked against the right-hand wall. It’s Italy, but it’s also any place where people sit a little longer than they meant to because the light is simply too good to leave.