When I remember last night, the first thing I remember is the garlic. On your breath, in your mouth, on your tongue. The altoids, it turns out, were unequal to the task of exorcising the ghost of whatever it was you had for dinner. “Curiously strong”, my foot. The next thing I remember—and it really only takes a fraction of a second for this memory to rise—is the fabric. All crushed up. Sheets and shirts twisted and tangled. Folds of flannel and denim leaving imprints that look like little landscapes—the topography of your top etched on your pale, perfect skin. I remember the lamplight, catching the luminescence of your hair, creating a glow around your head, like a halo. When I squint my eyes you look like an angel. And it’s weird, because I don’t expect this, but when I stop squinting, you’re still an angel, and I am lost in the heaven of your eyes. We melt together, twining into a glowing mess of garlic and desire and I feel this urge to tell you how I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have wings.