Francine knows the soul of figs from tasting. Wanders bodies of the lasting, then leaves. This morning, she writes, birds pretended to be swallowed. As often swallows do. I’ll leave cake for them on the landing, she writes, then watch the myself disappear. Francine knows St Gabriel’s prayers by heart. She keeps him written on her body. I liked the way he tipped his hat, then left dirt on my pillow. Imagine the earth was someone else, she writes, and not who we’ve come to know. Francine knows. She listens to swallows. I don’t call him on the phone, she writes, but we speak regardless. Francine opens figs for the taste of his sentences. And she believes him.