The hammock strung between coconut trees. The two-maybe-three-maybe-four-person spa; blood down a bread knife during a bonfire. The smell of rain against hot sand, rain mixed with saltwater, rain sticking to sunburnt skin. (The taste of rain; floral and fresh.) A midnight telephone call, a pinky-swear oath to never come back. The return, the return. The (inevitable) return. The sandpaper of cheap linen. Quarters plugged into coin slots. The whir of a laundromat dryer, the click of a payphone. The scratch of concrete against calluses, your calluses against my calluses. A pitchfork, a hammer, the scrape of a shovel digging. The clunk of an ice machine; its cubes against my nipples, cubes defrosted with warm breath, cubes to preserve and contain; frostbitten and frost-cured. The lonely echo over a rink at night, a lake at night, an endless void of darkness. The sweetness of stars stuck against a midnight canvas. The violent tug binding us together. Strawberry-red neon over breakfast at dark; coffee and garlic sausages and hot, sticky syrup.