For days and days the phone rings and he doesn't answer. Doesn't notice. He sweats over the pearl of her nails, the ocher and emerald of her eyes. This is a man who sings when he works, but there is no singing now. He breathes through his mouth like he can inhale her.

"Avalanche," he says at night, and she's kneeling, she rolls her gaze upward while her tongue makes thick wet circles. "Avalanche," he repeats, but then he forgets, just the way she likes. That jerkpulsewarmth down her throat and she has to be so so careful not to take too much, too soon. It would be so easy. It would feel so good.

It would ruin everything, she reminds herself, and watches him sleep. She wonders, is there enough of him left to dream?