She buys me whiskey, lips ruby red, hair darker than night and eyes the fathomless sea. She tells me the story of the nightingale caught under a leopard’s gaze. She whispers that sex is a spell to save barbarity from boredom. I say, “Do we understand what this is? What we are?” She smiles, replies, “We are nightingales trying to speak to each other”. Then we fall silent. Until one of us fucks the other.