She exhales the dreams from her lungs. I brush her hair with my hand, stroking it in short sweeps with my fingers, from forehead to crown. It is thick hair, and short, and the texture feels oily. Fingertips touching scalp, faint aroma of balsam and tobacco.
She’s a deep sleeper, maybe a deep thinker. Last night she said Renoir reminded her of Vincent Price, “that guy in the old horror movies, with the mustache.” A waitress, fascinated by my blindness. Everyone is surprised when the monkey does a different set of tricks.