Don’t be scared of those seven tigers. They only long to see the twinkling of wet jungle leaves. Look at them, dearest, aren’t they brilliant? Jewels left to drain out with the stale margaritas tossed out of their flamingo

Maybe I went back out to the car for your book just to hear the sound of the rain, just to let the smell of woodsmoke curl at my nostrils, tendrils of a different life mixing with my own.