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We put a hundred carpets down on the rooftop, hung them like tapestries, made a house of cards to live in, in the sky above our building. We brought up trays of fruit and pitchers of iced tea and nestled in among the plants, fading to green like the crested lizards and anoles curled beneath the leaves. There was no city below that night, no botanical gardens, no cafe on the square, no spice market, no museums. An asterism in a purple sky over the Indian Ocean, we stayed awake all night, playing music and painting each other’s bodies, Miro on my belly, Picasso on my knee.