I thought a blackbird had lit upon the table, thanks to the wine, black by dimming midsummer light, shivering just so on the wobbly table as all tucked into the tagine. Afterwards we sat at the fireplace, the sole remnant of the first house, beautifully ruined and crowned in flowers. N roasted a pear, to no avail.

I'm tingling, Z said at last. The sangre de toro was not the culprit but a faint rain, so faint it stood on the tops of the hairs on our arms and dared not run to the skin, for it would have vanished just as lightning flashed its weird teeth only to hide again.

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