She brings a shawl out into the garden, cuddles into the chair next to mine. We listen to the sounds of the crickets and me swinging from the whiskey bottle. The air caresses the cacti needles behind us and all I can think about is the softness of her lips.
“That’s a falling star!” She points at the sky and one end of her shawl falls into my lap. I watch it lying there, so soft and clean against the hardened leather of my jacket, against my jeans speckled with car oil.
“Do you want a boy or a girl?” Her eyes sparkle in the porch light, whilst my mind flashes up with images of insomnia.
I shrug and stab out the cigarette.