Laertes's hands fall to his sides, curling into fists. His eyes close, at first; Sagramore sinks down on him like the lassitude of a hot bath, the flush of drunkenness, and for a moment every sensation is warm and clear and perfect. Laertes lets himself be still. Every exhalation feels like the last--as though bubbles must drift up from his lips toward the distant surface of consciousness, and break. But then he breathes in again, and the smells of myrrh and mint and sex are heavy on the air.