I smoke a cigarette and watch her through the bushes, trying to shake off my three year hangover. I swear this isn’t what you think. She isn’t a gas station and I’m not unleaded fuel and my cigarette isn’t a matchstick. She pushes a stroller of red bricks. Her skin is the most beautiful shade of chicken scratch. She winks like a cat thief. She flashes her ankles and throws a brick at me. It smashes my nose so I hold it like a third place trophy and she has scratched her number onto its red meat. Two days later we drink stale beer in her parent’s garage. When she demands I talk dirty I say think about the etymology of the word etymology. When she slaps me I say listen to one of your knees while the other lies so still. When she comes she screams I want you to fester inside me like a rotten tooth.