Ursula and the others count to 39 and then 64. The significance doesn’t register immediately. I change and wait. We observe each other. I drop. Fast. Laughter.
Part mash-up, part roast, I’ve stolen moments from Ursula in order to return them in new packaging. My shirt is threadbare. I lunge. I give instructions. I stab myself, shoot myself, strangle myself and set myself on fire. All in good fun. The paper unicorn is the only one in real danger; his sad tumble is beautiful, but final.
Yet, in every ending, there is a beginning.
We cool off with frozen towels, mango and home-made yogurt. The afternoon stretches into evening.