We`re lying in hammock strapped between two trees. I `m scratching her forearm with my fingertips and her head is resting on my naked chest.
Night breeze blows away the smell of fervor.
- Our garden. - she says.
- Our garden. - I repeat and then deeply, deeply, into even the farthest alveoli breathe in the musky scent of her hair.
- I have to go home. - she whispers.
- I know.
Blood moon hangs from the horizon.