She's dressed in every color of the rainbow, from an orange scarf down to sandals dotted in red rhinestones. When she poses before a spray-painted brick wall, the graffiti seems to unfold like wings from her body.
One of them has conquered water, the other air. They push at the bounds of what's physically possible.
She's draped across a bench in an evening dress, a cluster of trees shading her from the morning light. She had gone to a party the evening before, and when it wound down, she hadn't wanted to go home. She spent the night walking until she wore herself out. Her dress shoes have demolished her feet.
To make sure I'm serious about my intentions to visit, she asks for a pinky promise. Afterwards, a hug.
He curls up next to me on the couch, his hair tickling my arm as the movie plays.
Her deep-cleaning skills are impressive. Decades' worth of grime melt away.
The night air is like a warm towel pressed to my face.