Grabbing a coffee, we sit on a bench on the grounds of the church, smoking and chatting shit about this and that. In the sun, we’re purring cats, chewing the fat of plump rats between our shiny, rabid teeth. Her eyes are a brilliant blue. Mine grey. The skies swirl about her hair, which is in a bun, but here and there, loose strands dance about like the blades of grass in the field that surrounds us. When she kisses my flesh, a money spider crawls upon my arm. It moves over the ink of my tattoos and I lose sight of it fearing it might creep into my ear. Her features are well known to me. I’ve known them for many years. They’re fluid like water. They change like the weather. Sometimes, they soothe me like a breeze that creeps through the window in the middle of a long, sticky night. Then there are those times when they unnerve me like the rumble of thunder when I’m miles from nowhere and the threat of electricity reminds me that I’m not immortal at all, but just a fool on the hill who thinks he’s something more.