Folded arms across my waist, she tastes the sweat upon my belly and looks at me with feline eyes. ‘I wish that we could be together,’ she says. Dulcet, matter of fact. She hums. Sinatra maybe, though who knows. Between the air con thrum and traffic’s rumbling, not to mention my heart’s fierce pumping, I can’t be sure of anything. ‘Sing,’ I ask, but she just laughs like sunflowers fornicating, coruscating facets. ‘I have a wish,’ which she confides, ‘that you were only mine. That time were dead and distant. Folded in upon itself and doled out more consistent.’