‘The words I thought of earlier were better,’ I think as I sit here on a cloying night with a bowl of soup. One of those insects whose blood only moves in the summer is clicking outside. Just this side of arrhythmic he claps on the ‘and,’ but definitely four-four. No waltz meter for the six-leggers. Ironic.
The soup was as advertised. The chorizo was spicy. Sabroso, no sòlo caliente. The heat is fading from my mouth already. Fading like I want to. Meld into the quiet night.