She’s tempted to tell him her nighttime thoughts, how she’s going to be an old woman one day and the moths will have eaten away her memory so she won’t perhaps remember the names of people she knows or how the birds used to eat from her hand, but this man will be safe from time because she will have tucked him beneath memory, stored him in that place where blood takes its orders to flow and lungs to fill and eyes to empty themselves of tears.
