Her hard jaw line define her profile bold. With lips the color of grapefruit. A violent red. Her eyes shift with the weight of her perception; conscious, breathing, alive. Salvia smoke clouds her image, lines undergo ambiguity, soften and dull. The smoke spreads like dry ice, quick and free, finding a place to die in between the stucco and the gray specked linoleum. She laughs like a man, hardy and whole. I run my mouth down her skin, flaked and dry. She grabs my hair wild, tousles it with fury. Squeals of pleasure. She returns the favor. We make love. She stares at my cheekbones and says "You are the Odysseus to my Penelope. Don't make Poseidon angry, because I couldn't wait 20 years for you to come home. You know how I am." Her words echo in my thoughts as we go to sleep, carried by the humming of an air conditioner.