Among grey gravel lie their white bodies. Rachel is grieving over days that come and go. They have returned to the beach again where snow falls in watery flakes. She combs Kylie’s hair for her while she sleeps in her arms. Careful, yet strands fall out between Rachel’s fingers. Once she lay dying on a warehouse floor, in her head nothing but Kylie’s mocking silvery laugh and the thought of her lips. That’s how she knew there was still blood in her: She would not go first! Love smiles in its fainting fit, dreaming of infinity. Kylie’s skin is cold, pale, wet. Rachel kisses her temple, and it does not wake her. An icy draught comes from the red sea. The sun is setting.