Priscilla’s eyes are the reason for being. It’s undeniable, wingtipped mascera stroked lashes send wiretapped signals of knowing unjudicious pleasantly to my core. I stare at her lips awaiting their parting to partly thread between my heartbeats. “I don’t know anyone here. So what does it matter?” And it doesn’t, and she’s right in a way for people generally, but violets are blue, like the skittles that keep saving the night. And suddenly hope doesn’t seem so old and neither do we.