Why is a honeymoon called that? Lune de miel, moon of honey – as if the moon itself is not a cold and airless and barren sphere of pockmarked rock, but soft, golden, luscious – a luminous candied plum, the yellow kind, melting in the mouth and sticky as desire, so achingly sweet it makes your teeth hurt. A warm floodlight floating, not in the sky, but inside your own body.
