My eyebrow arched, ‘That’s my room when I was a kid,’ I gasped.

The view outside, apples, Fuji oak, null passages in fog; your cheek and forehead are evident. I then moved us to the rubber towel, leaving everything else to chance, a luscious, noiseless bonding. When I put a few highlights on your lips and we drank, it was like no milk ever tasted. All we want now is to grow up in sleep, trust and telepathy.