it feels like the apocalypse. clouds only hover, but humidity weighs in at one hundred per cent. mattresses and water sop the hallways, gleaming gray.

films are shown tonight. shouts fly up amid golf-claps. black slacks and jackets line up on gravel paths to the little octagonal theater. champagne flows on the two-and-a-half hour.

the black ponytail wafts away, glinting behind milk and apple cheeks. i rest back in my quilted dome. she visits me open.