I don't know you very well but I sure enjoy looking at your face.

    There is something unsettling about a woman that doesn’t give off a scent as you lovingly tussle with her on a couch in her apartment. Across the street a hot red neon sign begs PSYCHIC. It had to be one in a million. Her underwear were purple, with a white lace fringe that burgeoned from the lip of her lazy jeans.
    When we got to her apartment she ran to use the bathroom, and on her way down the hallway she yelled, I just want gin, with a lot of olives, and a splash of soda water.
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