she holds her liquor well. you have to, on this side of town: you have to be ready for the darkly stained shadows that may or may not show up in the corner of your eyes at a certain time, with a certain light. she drinks her liquor like it’s holy communion, the way she did when she was six and the building’s guardian allowed her to have just one sip, just one, of sour, reddish beer. she holds her liquor well, but some days she just feels INEBRIATED; perhaps it’s cause the sun’s been out the whole day and a butterfly landed on her roses just earlier, and it was the most beautiful thing, ah, you should’ve seen it, you should’ve. perhaps it’s the song on the radio, the most delicate weaving of soft guitars & melancholic choirs, like a slow dance that’s been left unfinished. perhaps it’s just that warm feeling in her chest, like some darkness, deeply seated in her veins from the moment she set foot on this land — that darkness gets cleaned away, sometimes. temporarily, at least - just the duration of a caress, of a kiss. just enough for her skin to not feel C O L D despite the hundred degrees outside. HE’s a man like any other’s ever crossed the path leading to the swamp. he’s jagged around the edges, darkened and faded out, with empty parts like a haunted house that still holds a stern attractiveness to people who love a good thrill. but he’s tender when he touches her, and though she can smell several kinds of alcohol on his lips, that seems to fit in, fit with everything, with the cool night, with the empty bar, with the cicadas outside that she’s not sure are truly singing, maybe they’re just a memory of another time, another life… rosa smiles, her kisses lingering just a breath away from his lips.