Stockley's Chocolate Limes

At midday Deus in the improbable form of Bernie exited the Machina made by Peugeot.
He'd spent 14 hours sleeping in blissful ignorance of our cracked voices.
We'd spent the morning cycling round the town, walking back and forth along the river path, driving into the hills and chaining cigarettes and  coffee to keep us going.
Nico knew someone who knew someone who could locate lost dogs by spinning a crystal on the end of a hair plucked from a mammoth's testicles, but we couldn't get hold of the someone.
I avoided looking up at hills from our windows because they were our place together, so I swept the floor, gathering enough molted fur to make another Bernie, letting it sizzle on the fading fire we'd lit the night before.
As a kid, old ladies in the village had paper bags of sweets.  Pear drops were the best and Stockley's chocolate and lime were the worst.  The lime being bitter and the chocolate being sweet didn't work as a combination for me.
Today has been a chocolate lime.