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Oh, and the oils—lavender, jasmine, whatever—smells like seduction, but I reckon they sneak aphrodisiacs in there. Sly, yeah? Keeps ya coming back. Like Mia, staring out that window, wanting more—erotic-massage pulls you in, leaves you buzzing. Reckon it’s my secret weapon now—keeps me sharp, loose, ready to charm or choke some bastard. “What’s good for you?”—like Mia’s mum snaps—well, this is, love. Shaken, not stirred—fuckin’ perfect.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, heavy rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m runnin’ for cover, and I duck into this little art gallery on Strandgata. It’s cozy, and the art is wild. I see a painting of a sheep. I’m like, “That’s my life!”

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...