[Alia's eyes are bright and quick as hungry songbirds skimming over fields of fruit trees, plucking ripe berries and gulping them down beneath the sizzling sun. She sees that glimpse of something, a chord strummed, a half-remembered tune. It leaves like a wisp of spice in the wind, and Alia feels it's loss echoed in her chest as it glows momentary, brief over the stranger's lovely face.

Stepping closer, one hand cupped, holding the tiny bright-eyed amphibian, Alia brings her palm level with the other woman's.] Hold your hand steady, like a little bowl, see? A place for them to sit. [One finger of her free hand nudges the little frog, prompting it to hop forward, from one hand to another.]

You knew someone fond of mud? Or singing, perhaps?