My awful ears are full of old smoochings, the corners of my eyes are dirty with the rubbings of noses into necks and talk of how they'll eat tonight. "Tonight you must prepare the chicken just like that. It's better. It's best. It's fine." He's Dutch, she's Polish, they speak a sort of English that runs out of words. He holds the scruff of her neck like love or a cat and pulls her face into his moustache and long white beard.
Meanwhile the animals have scattered.