Behind the knees, in the crease leading from the shoulder and wallowing aside her arm, at the cleft behind her bent head-- there she is lush, fragrant, woodsy; powerful in headlong trails of dampness. Water here is the foreigner, and he is anxious she will dry out before he's spoken.
Parched grass bristles beyond the windowpanes. He holds a palm against her ribcage, fingers stretched in a yielding star, and speaks.
"You were always unhappy here, weren't you?"
And Hana spins the needle in the air; lets out a stream of morphine and spreads aloe across his blistered, pious fingertips.
