Short black hair, sparkling eyes, tongue piercing. Tonight she’s making couscous with heirloom tomatoes and olives before she gets stoned and eats an entire jar of orange blossom honey from the mountains of Italy. Of course I smoke, she says, rolling her eyes at her own predictability. She is slightly younger than me maybe, definitely not older. She tells me to try the honey mixed with green apples and I wonder if that’s some type of euphemism and then mentally scold myself for always injecting sex into every interaction. I tell her that I hope her couscous is delicious (again, sex) and she says she’ll let me know next time we see each other. The homeless dude on the corner outside sings Tom Jones and rhythmically rattles his paper cup.
