Theo gets sulky just before the rains come.
Three days ago he left for the city. There, he claims, the fury of the insects and the weight of the humidity do not torment him. He sits on sheltered porches of cafès—fans rattling overhead—swilling beer after beer until he's so numbed by the noise and the alcohol that the itching of the bites he endured at home ceases to bother him.
Me, he leaves to the fields and flies and my own fallow heart, which grows more empty and dangerous each day because no feelings are left to dust it with tenderness.