This is spring and it glows. Everything is covered in linden. Even the linden is covered in linden. Leigh Chadwick is here, right here, also covered in linden, stuck between these walls, in a house built a grandma ago, where it is so easy for her to be with you. I love you, the chest inside her says. I love you, your voice outside the walls echoes back. Leigh Chadwick’s eyes wild children, your chest holier than church. There are moments and there are moments. Leigh Chadwick doesn’t know which moment this is. She doesn’t know if it matters. She assumes it doesn’t. Outside spring continues glowing linden. Leigh Chadwick steeps tea in her underwear while she imagines you sliding your hands over her hips, down her thighs. She brushes her teeth for two full minutes. She swishes Listerine between her cheeks. Leigh Chadwick goes through her closets and picks out a sundress that bloomed last week. The threads have already begun to wilt. Her throat presses against her gums. Leigh Chadwick considers praying again, though she never prayed a first time.