The night is cool on her tiny balcony and the beer tastes better than she expected. She peers at the can. It’s an IPA, which she thought she hated, but the can says wet hops and maybe that’s the difference. The air feels wobbly. A gentle wind makes the building sway. Or maybe it’s Esme swaying, with her beer half drunk already. She closes her eyes and feels her body tilt back and forth. She breathes. She pulses. Her body readjusts itself to the gentle sways of balance. Something is always readjusting, re-finding the center. Life is churning. The river is flowing. Her thirst is increasing with
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