We lick the soil from the tops of your strawberries and set alight the very ends of the green leaves. Burning plastic straws, forming black tar puddles in the ashtray and enlarging your faces in the dead shadow of a crumbling wooden building, where inside RAF pilots wrote on the ceiling with candles, cigarettes and the lipsticks of those women most of whom had given up hope of ever seeing those silver lipstick tubes returned, and their men. I imagine them standing on and falling from tables waving the colour of hazy remembered lips and the morning kisses, kitchen pouts and perhaps the last kiss they forgot the feel of as fast as the blisters began forming. This is what I am thinking when you start talking with the easy unthinking cruelty of a child, of blowing up bullfrogs in your grandfather’s garden, of squeezing apples between the metal clamps in his toolshed.