Mossie picks up the bottle of wine and starts pouring it over her head to water her flowers with it. They start swaying, which sends me into a fit of laughter. A burp erupts from my mouth, cutting it short. “Your flowers are drunk.” She tilts her head back to try to look at them, but of course that doesn’t work and only makes me laugh harder. “I have buzzed blooms,” she supplies. I purse my lips in thought. “Plastered plants.” “Sloshed shoots.” “Say that ten times fast,” I challenge. Mossie taps her nose in challenge accepted. “Sloshed shoots, shloshed shootsh, slosheds shootses…shit.” I
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