"Salvia, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can deal with stories right now."

She understands. "That’s alright. It’ll keep. You just rest."

She stops, bends over him and pulls up the quilt. He feels her hair brush against his face. Then she leaves him alone.

It’s all too difficult though. He feels awash. Tar and feathers. Head in the sand. Goose is cooked. Down, down, down. Somewhere in all the odd phrases that dabble through his head like a scrambled crossword puzzle he imagines he hears Salvia whisper fondly, "You silly old goose."