The lights are dim. A mustard tint hangs like a canopy over the breath of the house. Dishes come to life in the hot water while my dress scratches the floor, and I scratch my head, not knowing what to do now that the kids are asleep, dusty little sun-scorched feet hanging off the bedside.

I blow crushed petals off the tips of my fingers. Some act like boomerangs and I am left with a little smattering of flowers all around my mouth. I imagine I was born that way.

And then.