She came slowly, in a flood of damp, shredded newspaper, snorting like a horse.
A wave of dark pestilence swept through her body, blotchy and swollen, like mumps. Knots of wood, rough and scabbed with lichen, formed on her forehead and leaked tiny drops of pale-coloured sap. A chill wind blew leaves and religious pamplets across the pillow.
The shadow of Christ on the Cross fell across us at a contrived, Expressionist angle, flickering in time with the lights from the airport and making us giggle like drunken children.
I don't think I've ever loved you more than in that moment.