Caramels swimming in the foam of a chocolate porter; apricot liqueur spilled on a ballroom floor; a leather purse, tanned with Burgundy and sultriness, left on a barstool. The mouth is a silk sarong of smuggled rum and toasted acorns held in the arms of a woman with perfume dabbed on her wrists. A little water gives us her mouth, shaped like a fresh fig, after she’s washed down almond macaroons and orange fudge with cola gone flat on the site of an old chapel in Elgin. Finishing with betel nuts wrapped in honeyed firefly wings for sweetness and light.