No scotch, unfortunately. She is driving home. She stops for gas, petrol, bensín, whatever it is called. Briefly, she thinks of storm petrels, which are not gulls but related to the albatross, and the ouroboros. Headlights on other cars flash by. She turns the wheel when she ought to, crosses the bridge with its illuminated cables.
Still, when she pulls up in front of the house, she is surprised. She had expected to be somewhere else when she got home.
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