She'd laugh, scream, weep. Sometimes I made blood come. One time, in the attic, she blacked out: as she came, her eyes changed colour, blue to green to grey, then closed. When she woke, the sureness and near-indifference, how quickly she lit up a cigarette and left - I knew she hadn't seen the same slice of Heaven I had. And, lying there, alone, fanned by this storm of wings, half-blinded by haloes, the attic ceiling a window more or less on a sky-wide orchard gilded with trumpet and stars, I still felt second fiddle, as though, with the speech on the boat, she'd gone beyond, and was up there, in the trees, looking down at me.