Lost Creek Hollow I'm such a romantic,

when she speaks it is with an ambien drawl and owlglass is enraptured. he smiles despite himself and sidesteps closer to her, heel over heel. indeed, a rough laugh, a voice from lungs that have been encrusted by salt from the inside by years of breathing in seaspray. he smells of menthol, those small lozenges that fisherman carry around in their breast pockets. what's your name? when he speaks, it is out of the corner of his mouth, churning with vocal fry. 'm owlglass.