deep breaths; or, the air ain't safe no more
original fiction/stream of consciousness type thing. data type things taken from interwebs. written for a man type thing as a gift type thing.
Only 17.5% of the oxygen in the atmosphere is usable.
The average adult needs approximately 432 L of oxygen a day. The average adult takes fifteen breaths a minute. The average breath is comprised of 21% oxygen. The average breath fills lungs to only 7.5% their full capacity.
We’re in a hypothetical room. No windows or doors. No oxygen coming in or going out. Just a table set for two: two chairs, two lattes, two laptops, two ashtrays. The table though has one leg and four toes but no feet. It’s okay, since we aren’t average people. Our hypothetical table ought to be a little special.
But let’s say we’re really in such a room.
Except let’s make the room all windows instead. A glass box, really. Except the floor is carpeted because I like walking barefoot, and the ceiling is opaque because I’m a feminist.
The usable oxygen in a room 12 x 12 x 8 feet can last an average person at rest 2.6 days. Two of us means 1.3 days. That is, if we both stay at rest, and neither of us gets greedy and uses up more than our own share of oxygen. We aren’t average people, but let’s stoop to that level for 31.2 hours.
We don’t say anything to begin with.
I’m mildly surprised that you’re the person on the other side of the table from me. You probably expected me to be here. I take the liberty of giving myself a head start and light a cigarette first. I watch you roll a cigarette for yourself even as the smoke from mine stings my eyes and nostrils. Your fingers are long, steady, practiced. I take the liberty of waxing poetic and think of your fingers as captivating.
I wonder how many rolling papers have been graced by your tongue, how many leaves of tobacco have been nestled between your fingers and your lips but always separated from them by such a delicate piece of paper. I wonder if the leaves of tobacco consider themselves martyrs, welcoming the creeping fire just so they can be a part of the on average 500 mL of air that fill your lungs with every drag you take.
The ghosts of their ghosts, your hazy exhalations, fill my lungs.
You catch up and eventually overtake me. With every drag I take from what remains of my own cigarette, I exhale a prayer for the guilty survivors you’ve lain to rest in your ashtray. It doesn’t mean much since I don’t believe in God. But it’s the thought that counts.
I smoke mine to the filter.
I ask you how you take your coffee. You don’t answer. You ask if I drink wine. I answer with, Red.
We don’t speak to each other for some time after that.
We’re both typing away, eyes never leaving our screens. Let’s say we both know Morse code. Your fingers ask, How many hours til the oxygen runs out? My fingers answer, It hasn’t even been one yet. Your typing stops and you finally look at me with that exasperated furrowing of your brows and rolling of your eyes and turning down of the corners of your lips. I don’t have to look at you to know they’re all there on your face. It’s an expression you direct at me on average more than half of always.
Let’s say I’m conceited so I think it’s a look you reserve just for me.
You dig your pouch of tobacco out of your pocket. You offer to roll one for me. I reject it only because then I can say you’re using up more oxygen than I am.
Another hour or two gone and we haven’t said much. Any pauses in your typing are for you to scribble something in your notebook or to stare into the middleground. Any pauses in my typing are for me to laugh silently but very physically at something someone’s said or to read a particularly dirty sex scene in the smut fiction we keep a faulty don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on, faulty only because I’m always telling up until you start asking.
You finally get annoyed enough to ask what I’m doing, whether I’m being productive.
Let’s say we’re playing Battleship and your question is a salvo that sinks one of my submarines.
Let’s say I’m a poor sport so I don’t announce it.
Instead I say, Duh. I ask, Well what about you? You say, Yeah, of course.
But I feel enough of the average person’s remorse to change tack by navigating through the on average dozen tabs I keep open at once to one of academia. My typing and laughing and gutter-sunk thinking stop. Your typing and jotting and brooding go on.
It’s during one of your pauses that I light my second cigarette. In our mutual silence, I hear the paper and tobacco burn. I wonder if you can too even through that mess of thoughts in your head and that mess of hair on it.
Except I don’t really think that your thoughts are a mess. I wouldn’t say there’s a method to your madness because I don’t think you’re mad, and maybe you’d be surprised to know that I know that mad means crazy not angry in British English. Maybe not. Maybe you would be surprised if I take poetic license and say your thoughts are like a reel of film, vivid and endless. Maybe not.
But even as the film keeps going and the images keep changing, reels are round so every shot is securely placed over the shot that’s come before it in the circuit. Your thoughts aren’t unwound, aren’t a question of you-are-here and following a predictable spiral, but rather of passing through layers upon kissing layers like Orphée through a mirror to the underworld. No matter how long the film of your thoughts is from start to end, frames even from the very beginning shine clearly through all that’ve come since.
Your hair is another matter altogether.
By hour seven my brain’s rotted with literary theory and there’s a swath of smoke lining the ceiling that isn’t made of glass.
You ask, Are we dead yet? I answer with a nudge to your ankle with the toe of my boot. You take it as invitation to crush both my knees between both yours under our one-leg-four-toe-but-no-foot table.
Maybe you’re itching for attention too because you start casting out and exposing your film.
It’s obviously foreign.
What you call real life, I call fantasy. It’s okay, since we both know I’m geeky like that. If I said your life makes you sound like a Byronic hero would you know what I mean? Would you pretend to know and make a joke of combining the words bisexual and ironic? I would tell you that’s blending, one of eight ways a new lexical item is made, but not the definition of a Byronic hero, who isn’t really a hero at all but a charming asshole.
I’d call you Lord, and you’d call me by a number in the triple digits.
Would you give me that exasperated look again or call me a dork? Probably both.
So I don’t say anything. Just let you talk, let you write your fairy tales with the smoke that pours out of your mouth to join what’s already collected a meter over our heads.
I wonder if maybe our table is really a mushroom, if maybe you’re a caterpillar and I’m blonde, because it’s like you’re actually asking who I am but all I know is that maybe I ate a piece from the wrong side because I feel so much smaller than you are.
I’d call you Absolem, and you’d call me Alice.
I give you my version of your exasperated look, and it really is one reserved exactically for you because you’re the only person who makes me feel exasperated.
You ask, What? with a smile and a shake of your head like you’re daring me to answer and warning me not to at the same time.
So I don’t say anything.
In another few hours, a third of the oxygen is gone. But in its place, smoke blurs a third of the breathing room. How many times has that smoke from each of our very first cigarettes passed through our lungs? Does it still count as second-hand smoke even if its our own, even if it’s second-hand to the dozenth degree?
My coffee looks untouched.
You say, That’s so gross. I say, Drinking hot coffee that’s gone cold and dreggy is gross. I swirl the contents around the lip of the lid so the melted ice mixes with the rest then take a sip. It’s still cold. I ask, What? with a smile and you shake your head. But you don’t say anything more. Instead you drink your hot coffee that’s gone cold and dreggy.
Maybe the both of us being torn between making faces out of exasperation and out of defiance just makes the both of us even more exasperated and defiant. Maybe the both of us take coffee and cigarettes too seriously.
But it’s hard to think of one without the other coming to mind. And together they make the two degrees of separation between me and you.
I wonder if a yellow brick road counts as a yellow brick road if the road is made of only two yellow bricks.
You’d call me Dorothy, and I’d call you Toto.
Because you’re neither heartless nor made of tin, neither brainless nor made of straw, neither cowardly nor a lion. And maybe you’re also neither speechless nor a terrier, but sometimes I do wish you were quiet and sometimes I do like petting your hair. Though if I were to be perfectly honest instead of average person honest, I’d say I never wish you were quiet and I always like petting your hair.
Of course I say neither because I’m pretending to be average for another twenty hours or so. Maybe when they’ve expired and so have we, I’ll tell the above average truth.
Plato had issues with the truth. According to him, art is removed from the truth. No matter how accurate and precise (which are actually scientific not artistic concerns but I’m no scientist so I don’t give a fuck about that) a work of art is as a representation, there will always be two degrees of separation between it and the truth. Art is an imitation of something perceivable that is itself an imitation of a divine truth.
What does that make our stories?
What does that make us?
Would I call you Art, short for Arthur? Would you call me Truth, a speech impediment pronunciation of Ruth? You’d be the ideal sovereign. I’d be the ideal daughter-in-law. You’d have a round table. I’d have a men’s cloak instead of a ring. You’d be the victim of cuckoldry. I’d be the victim of Levirate marriage.
We’d be perfect partners in crime.
I’d call you Clyde, and you’d call me Bonnie.
We’d still be only stories.
But it’s okay, since Shelley says that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, that poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. Is it too late to tell you this is a dramatic monologue? Maybe it’s neither an ode nor written in blank verse, but I’m counting on you neither knowing nor caring about something nerdy like that.
One of three things you don’t know, I know.
Burning away a fixed supply of oxygen seems like a dumb idea when we get to the second half of the fixed supply. But we don’t make meaning where there isn’t any to be had. In our room made for two, there’s only one pair of headphones. We fight over it because we’ve run out of things to say to, to hear from each other.
I call your music noisy. You call mine whiny. But neither of us wants to risk jinxing anything, to risk owing a soda, because if we’re perfectly honest with ourselves and each other, both our tastes in music are pretty tacky.
Let’s say none of our words are our own for the remaining fifteen or so hours’ worth of oxygen.
You’d call me Valerie, and I’d call you Ricky.
You ask, Where is my mind?
You’d call me Hot Chick, and I’d call you Sexy Boy.
I say, Down on the street. I say, Rolling in the deep. I say, In the city. I say, Next to you. I say, In a cave. I say, A forest. I say, Outside your locked heart. I say, Where nobody knows.
You say, Don’t speak. You say, You talk way too much. You say, That’s all.
I say, Take it or leave it.
I’d call you Raphael, and you’d call me Sheila. You’d call me Taper Jean Girl, and I’d call you Little Garcon. I’d call you Big Poppa, and you’d call me Girl with One Eye. You’d call me Louie, Louie, and I’d call you Samson. I’d call you My Moon My Man, and you’d call me PYT.
You say, C’mere.
I say, Caress me down. I say, Love time now please. I say, Touch me I’m going to scream.
You say, C’mere.
Neither of us has a lit cigarette, but we’re still burning oxygen, still clouding the air with smoke. Tobacco is perfectly harmless, innocuous, when untouched. It’s only when ignited and consumed that it becomes dangerous and addictive. And it’s like I’m being incinerated. Your hands are everywhere. It’s not inconceivable: my body’s small enough and they’re big enough. More of me is touched by you than isn’t.
I go over the rule of nines for calculating body surface area of burn victims. 9% for the head. 9% for each arm. 18% for the anterior torso, 18% for the posterior torso. 9% for each anterior leg, 9% for each posterior leg. Eleven major areas of the body equals only 99%. But more than 100% of me is ablaze anyway because even though according to the rule of nines genitalia accounts for only 1% of the total body surface area your fingers aren’t just on me but in me. And contrary to the popular belief that kisses are meant to soothe, your mouth is insatiable, your lips and tongue and teeth only adding to the pyre you’ve made of my body.
Still, I’m glad there’s no rolling paper separating us, glad these are second- not third-degree burns because third-degree burns result in a loss of sensation and the thought of not being able to feel you reducing me to moans is infinitely worse than the thought of you reducing me to embers.
Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe not.
We were supposed to stay at rest. What should’ve been another thirteen hours has been whittled away to less than one. It’s hard to tell. The room, the glass box, is still only half full of smoke. Lying on the carpet, we stare up at the ceiling. Even if it were glass instead of opaque, we wouldn’t be able to tell through all the smoke, through everything we’ve said with words that were our own and weren’t.
You raise your phone. You say, One minute to midnight. You set an alarm.
You hold up your tobacco in offering. I shake my head, No. That’ll burn more oxygen and more time, and I want the last thing I taste to be you, and I want the last thing you breathe to be me.
The average breath is comprised of 21% oxygen. Going in. The average breath is comprised of 16% oxygen going out. I don’t tell you. Not with words, my own or not, anyway. Instead I tell myself that with every kiss we’re keeping each other alive just a bit longer.
You raise your phone. You say, 7minutes.
The average person falls asleep in seven minutes. We aren’t average people, but we’re still pretending to be. I want to keep you awake like I do on average more than half of always. But before I can pluck at your chest hair or poke at your bellybutton or prod at your shins with my freezing toes your alarm goes off.
You raise your phone. You say, 12:51.
My hand is dwarfed in yours.
I say, Adieu.
We close our eyes. Maybe I'll snore on purpose for once. Will we wake up on an air mattress? On a spaceship? In Central Park? In Narnia?
You say, C’mere.
So I do.
Smoke Signals © 2011
Only 17.5% of the oxygen in the atmosphere is usable.
The average adult needs approximately 432 L of oxygen a day. The average adult takes fifteen breaths a minute. The average breath is comprised of 21% oxygen. The average breath fills lungs to only 7.5% their full capacity.
We’re in a hypothetical room. No windows or doors. No oxygen coming in or going out. Just a table set for two: two chairs, two lattes, two laptops, two ashtrays. The table though has one leg and four toes but no feet. It’s okay, since we aren’t average people. Our hypothetical table ought to be a little special.
But let’s say we’re really in such a room.
Except let’s make the room all windows instead. A glass box, really. Except the floor is carpeted because I like walking barefoot, and the ceiling is opaque because I’m a feminist.
The usable oxygen in a room 12 x 12 x 8 feet can last an average person at rest 2.6 days. Two of us means 1.3 days. That is, if we both stay at rest, and neither of us gets greedy and uses up more than our own share of oxygen. We aren’t average people, but let’s stoop to that level for 31.2 hours.
We don’t say anything to begin with.
I’m mildly surprised that you’re the person on the other side of the table from me. You probably expected me to be here. I take the liberty of giving myself a head start and light a cigarette first. I watch you roll a cigarette for yourself even as the smoke from mine stings my eyes and nostrils. Your fingers are long, steady, practiced. I take the liberty of waxing poetic and think of your fingers as captivating.
I wonder how many rolling papers have been graced by your tongue, how many leaves of tobacco have been nestled between your fingers and your lips but always separated from them by such a delicate piece of paper. I wonder if the leaves of tobacco consider themselves martyrs, welcoming the creeping fire just so they can be a part of the on average 500 mL of air that fill your lungs with every drag you take.
The ghosts of their ghosts, your hazy exhalations, fill my lungs.
You catch up and eventually overtake me. With every drag I take from what remains of my own cigarette, I exhale a prayer for the guilty survivors you’ve lain to rest in your ashtray. It doesn’t mean much since I don’t believe in God. But it’s the thought that counts.
I smoke mine to the filter.
I ask you how you take your coffee. You don’t answer. You ask if I drink wine. I answer with, Red.
We don’t speak to each other for some time after that.
We’re both typing away, eyes never leaving our screens. Let’s say we both know Morse code. Your fingers ask, How many hours til the oxygen runs out? My fingers answer, It hasn’t even been one yet. Your typing stops and you finally look at me with that exasperated furrowing of your brows and rolling of your eyes and turning down of the corners of your lips. I don’t have to look at you to know they’re all there on your face. It’s an expression you direct at me on average more than half of always.
Let’s say I’m conceited so I think it’s a look you reserve just for me.
You dig your pouch of tobacco out of your pocket. You offer to roll one for me. I reject it only because then I can say you’re using up more oxygen than I am.
Another hour or two gone and we haven’t said much. Any pauses in your typing are for you to scribble something in your notebook or to stare into the middleground. Any pauses in my typing are for me to laugh silently but very physically at something someone’s said or to read a particularly dirty sex scene in the smut fiction we keep a faulty don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on, faulty only because I’m always telling up until you start asking.
You finally get annoyed enough to ask what I’m doing, whether I’m being productive.
Let’s say we’re playing Battleship and your question is a salvo that sinks one of my submarines.
Let’s say I’m a poor sport so I don’t announce it.
Instead I say, Duh. I ask, Well what about you? You say, Yeah, of course.
But I feel enough of the average person’s remorse to change tack by navigating through the on average dozen tabs I keep open at once to one of academia. My typing and laughing and gutter-sunk thinking stop. Your typing and jotting and brooding go on.
It’s during one of your pauses that I light my second cigarette. In our mutual silence, I hear the paper and tobacco burn. I wonder if you can too even through that mess of thoughts in your head and that mess of hair on it.
Except I don’t really think that your thoughts are a mess. I wouldn’t say there’s a method to your madness because I don’t think you’re mad, and maybe you’d be surprised to know that I know that mad means crazy not angry in British English. Maybe not. Maybe you would be surprised if I take poetic license and say your thoughts are like a reel of film, vivid and endless. Maybe not.
But even as the film keeps going and the images keep changing, reels are round so every shot is securely placed over the shot that’s come before it in the circuit. Your thoughts aren’t unwound, aren’t a question of you-are-here and following a predictable spiral, but rather of passing through layers upon kissing layers like Orphée through a mirror to the underworld. No matter how long the film of your thoughts is from start to end, frames even from the very beginning shine clearly through all that’ve come since.
Your hair is another matter altogether.
By hour seven my brain’s rotted with literary theory and there’s a swath of smoke lining the ceiling that isn’t made of glass.
You ask, Are we dead yet? I answer with a nudge to your ankle with the toe of my boot. You take it as invitation to crush both my knees between both yours under our one-leg-four-toe-but-no-foot table.
Maybe you’re itching for attention too because you start casting out and exposing your film.
It’s obviously foreign.
What you call real life, I call fantasy. It’s okay, since we both know I’m geeky like that. If I said your life makes you sound like a Byronic hero would you know what I mean? Would you pretend to know and make a joke of combining the words bisexual and ironic? I would tell you that’s blending, one of eight ways a new lexical item is made, but not the definition of a Byronic hero, who isn’t really a hero at all but a charming asshole.
I’d call you Lord, and you’d call me by a number in the triple digits.
Would you give me that exasperated look again or call me a dork? Probably both.
So I don’t say anything. Just let you talk, let you write your fairy tales with the smoke that pours out of your mouth to join what’s already collected a meter over our heads.
I wonder if maybe our table is really a mushroom, if maybe you’re a caterpillar and I’m blonde, because it’s like you’re actually asking who I am but all I know is that maybe I ate a piece from the wrong side because I feel so much smaller than you are.
I’d call you Absolem, and you’d call me Alice.
I give you my version of your exasperated look, and it really is one reserved exactically for you because you’re the only person who makes me feel exasperated.
You ask, What? with a smile and a shake of your head like you’re daring me to answer and warning me not to at the same time.
So I don’t say anything.
In another few hours, a third of the oxygen is gone. But in its place, smoke blurs a third of the breathing room. How many times has that smoke from each of our very first cigarettes passed through our lungs? Does it still count as second-hand smoke even if its our own, even if it’s second-hand to the dozenth degree?
My coffee looks untouched.
You say, That’s so gross. I say, Drinking hot coffee that’s gone cold and dreggy is gross. I swirl the contents around the lip of the lid so the melted ice mixes with the rest then take a sip. It’s still cold. I ask, What? with a smile and you shake your head. But you don’t say anything more. Instead you drink your hot coffee that’s gone cold and dreggy.
Maybe the both of us being torn between making faces out of exasperation and out of defiance just makes the both of us even more exasperated and defiant. Maybe the both of us take coffee and cigarettes too seriously.
But it’s hard to think of one without the other coming to mind. And together they make the two degrees of separation between me and you.
I wonder if a yellow brick road counts as a yellow brick road if the road is made of only two yellow bricks.
You’d call me Dorothy, and I’d call you Toto.
Because you’re neither heartless nor made of tin, neither brainless nor made of straw, neither cowardly nor a lion. And maybe you’re also neither speechless nor a terrier, but sometimes I do wish you were quiet and sometimes I do like petting your hair. Though if I were to be perfectly honest instead of average person honest, I’d say I never wish you were quiet and I always like petting your hair.
Of course I say neither because I’m pretending to be average for another twenty hours or so. Maybe when they’ve expired and so have we, I’ll tell the above average truth.
Plato had issues with the truth. According to him, art is removed from the truth. No matter how accurate and precise (which are actually scientific not artistic concerns but I’m no scientist so I don’t give a fuck about that) a work of art is as a representation, there will always be two degrees of separation between it and the truth. Art is an imitation of something perceivable that is itself an imitation of a divine truth.
What does that make our stories?
What does that make us?
Would I call you Art, short for Arthur? Would you call me Truth, a speech impediment pronunciation of Ruth? You’d be the ideal sovereign. I’d be the ideal daughter-in-law. You’d have a round table. I’d have a men’s cloak instead of a ring. You’d be the victim of cuckoldry. I’d be the victim of Levirate marriage.
We’d be perfect partners in crime.
I’d call you Clyde, and you’d call me Bonnie.
We’d still be only stories.
But it’s okay, since Shelley says that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, that poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. Is it too late to tell you this is a dramatic monologue? Maybe it’s neither an ode nor written in blank verse, but I’m counting on you neither knowing nor caring about something nerdy like that.
One of three things you don’t know, I know.
Burning away a fixed supply of oxygen seems like a dumb idea when we get to the second half of the fixed supply. But we don’t make meaning where there isn’t any to be had. In our room made for two, there’s only one pair of headphones. We fight over it because we’ve run out of things to say to, to hear from each other.
I call your music noisy. You call mine whiny. But neither of us wants to risk jinxing anything, to risk owing a soda, because if we’re perfectly honest with ourselves and each other, both our tastes in music are pretty tacky.
Let’s say none of our words are our own for the remaining fifteen or so hours’ worth of oxygen.
You’d call me Valerie, and I’d call you Ricky.
You ask, Where is my mind?
You’d call me Hot Chick, and I’d call you Sexy Boy.
I say, Down on the street. I say, Rolling in the deep. I say, In the city. I say, Next to you. I say, In a cave. I say, A forest. I say, Outside your locked heart. I say, Where nobody knows.
You say, Don’t speak. You say, You talk way too much. You say, That’s all.
I say, Take it or leave it.
I’d call you Raphael, and you’d call me Sheila. You’d call me Taper Jean Girl, and I’d call you Little Garcon. I’d call you Big Poppa, and you’d call me Girl with One Eye. You’d call me Louie, Louie, and I’d call you Samson. I’d call you My Moon My Man, and you’d call me PYT.
You say, C’mere.
I say, Caress me down. I say, Love time now please. I say, Touch me I’m going to scream.
You say, C’mere.
Neither of us has a lit cigarette, but we’re still burning oxygen, still clouding the air with smoke. Tobacco is perfectly harmless, innocuous, when untouched. It’s only when ignited and consumed that it becomes dangerous and addictive. And it’s like I’m being incinerated. Your hands are everywhere. It’s not inconceivable: my body’s small enough and they’re big enough. More of me is touched by you than isn’t.
I go over the rule of nines for calculating body surface area of burn victims. 9% for the head. 9% for each arm. 18% for the anterior torso, 18% for the posterior torso. 9% for each anterior leg, 9% for each posterior leg. Eleven major areas of the body equals only 99%. But more than 100% of me is ablaze anyway because even though according to the rule of nines genitalia accounts for only 1% of the total body surface area your fingers aren’t just on me but in me. And contrary to the popular belief that kisses are meant to soothe, your mouth is insatiable, your lips and tongue and teeth only adding to the pyre you’ve made of my body.
Still, I’m glad there’s no rolling paper separating us, glad these are second- not third-degree burns because third-degree burns result in a loss of sensation and the thought of not being able to feel you reducing me to moans is infinitely worse than the thought of you reducing me to embers.
Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe not.
We were supposed to stay at rest. What should’ve been another thirteen hours has been whittled away to less than one. It’s hard to tell. The room, the glass box, is still only half full of smoke. Lying on the carpet, we stare up at the ceiling. Even if it were glass instead of opaque, we wouldn’t be able to tell through all the smoke, through everything we’ve said with words that were our own and weren’t.
You raise your phone. You say, One minute to midnight. You set an alarm.
You hold up your tobacco in offering. I shake my head, No. That’ll burn more oxygen and more time, and I want the last thing I taste to be you, and I want the last thing you breathe to be me.
The average breath is comprised of 21% oxygen. Going in. The average breath is comprised of 16% oxygen going out. I don’t tell you. Not with words, my own or not, anyway. Instead I tell myself that with every kiss we’re keeping each other alive just a bit longer.
You raise your phone. You say, 7minutes.
The average person falls asleep in seven minutes. We aren’t average people, but we’re still pretending to be. I want to keep you awake like I do on average more than half of always. But before I can pluck at your chest hair or poke at your bellybutton or prod at your shins with my freezing toes your alarm goes off.
You raise your phone. You say, 12:51.
My hand is dwarfed in yours.
I say, Adieu.
We close our eyes. Maybe I'll snore on purpose for once. Will we wake up on an air mattress? On a spaceship? In Central Park? In Narnia?
You say, C’mere.
So I do.
Smoke Signals © 2011