The Airbnb was quaint and quirky and we blew in with the wind, strewing makeup bags and wine coolers across the place like our signature: four best friends, there to whoop it up.
Squeaks and screeches and haunting calls of “who-hoo-oooo” spoke amongst themselves in the language of the night, exclusive food chain negotiations I had no desire to be party to.
She feels it beating at its cage like desperate fists pounding inside a coffin that’s been closed too soon, buried too soon.
On a 20 hour bus ride through jungle and desert, the bathroom will be vile. But don’t let that stop you.