Whenever Chinatsu sees her lover crying in the face of rain, she turns colorless. In this way she cannot be mistaken for sad. Or she becomes the wind, thinking I want nothing to do with flighty boys, their bipolar destinies. On a clear day, after Chinatsu has made impossible promises with the sun in her eyes, men fall from the sky like planes with rusted parts. Skittering, searching each individual fire, she discovers the body of her boyfriend. No longer afraid of being burned, she picks up his remains, carries him across the poppy fields. He is lighter than she. Lighter than rain.

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