I’m meant to meet a man in the old hotel by the sea. I’m supposed to be French so I practice my phrases and accent. Je voudrais, je veux—
He doesn’t look like his photograph. I don’t remember what his photograph looked like. He’s not what I wanted, but I think I can make do.
There are flowers in bloom, fed by waterfalls, runes carved into the stone of the hotel and the stone of the cliff and for once I am not afraid of the edge. There are cranberries to pick in the white flowers, and a rose soaked in pure juice from the berries, pink and wet like the inside of a lip, a flick of tongue.
I peel each petal and eat them one by one.
A girl comes to me in the room I’m meant to share with the man and asks if I want to go somewhere with her. When I say yes, she’s breathless; presses fingers to the blossoming-warm curve of my cheek and gives me the softest kiss.