Late night. Ermes wakes up crying his eyes out. Maybe he has a fever, maybe his teeth hurt. We turn on the light. Xho begins to sing, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..." I join in. Ermes quiets down. We notice that he is looking at the ceiling. Our hands form shadows. So be it. Xho's hands form a butterfly, mine a snail. Ermes smiles. We go back to sleep.
This is, more or less, what at sixteen I called, with disdain, "bourgeois happiness."