When Cherokee and Raphael got back to the canyon house, they set up the tepee on...

When Cherokee and Raphael got back to the canyon house, they set up the tepee on the grass and crept inside it. They lay on their backs, not touching, looking at the leaf shadows flickering on their canvas, and trying to identify the flowers they smelled in the warm air. "Honeysuckle." "Orange blossom." "Rose." "The Sea."
"The Sea! That doesn't count!"
"I smell it like it's growing in the yard."
They giggled the way they used to when they were very young. Then they were quiet. Raphael sat up and took Cherokee's feet in her hands. "Do they still hurt?" he asked, stroking them tenderly. He moved his hands up over her whole body, as if he were painting her, bringing color into her white skin. As if he were playing her-his guitar. And all the hurt seemed to float out of her like music. They woke in the morning curled together. "Remember how when we were really little we used to have the same dreams?" Cherokee whispered. "It was like going on trips together."
"It stopped when we started making love." "I know." "But last night..."
"Orchards of hawks and apricots," Raphael said, remembering. "Sheer pink-and-gold cliffs."
"The sky's wings."
"The night beasts run beside us, not afraid. Dream horses carry us..."
"To the sea," they said together...