It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river.
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