I kiss her on the shelf of her cheekbone and imagine a damp, yellow towel at the bottom of the laundry basket. Her cigarettes are tucked into the band of her terry cloth shorts. She is sleeping.

Three times I pace the length of the bed before curling at her feet. This is where she wanted me last night when she came in stumbling and wet. She had pulled and pleaded, and I, dumb, shook and rolled my heat into a dry pit. I could not love her and did not try.

Her dark hair is knotted with hairspray, her open palm on the pillow. I lick the hand; hold my tongue on the heart line. She is wild onions and cornstarch.

I hold her rough heel, inhale the drink mixers and broken glass of the club. She is no longer married and I no longer want her. She is my wet animal with black eyes.

It was the circles that drew me to her. The darkness under the eyes, dark like the women in icons, the yellow skin and long cheeks. Rublev.

I could tell she knew how to hate, and therefore, how to fuck.

She wakes up and wipes off the spit on her palm. She kicks me in the ribs to get me to move and then pulls the sheet over both of us. I watch it hush over her legs, the smooth ankle bones, the empty hips.