“I like your ass and your hair,” I said, “and your lips and your eyes and your wine and your place and your joints. But I’m not in order.”
“You write a lot about women.”
“I know. I wonder sometimes what I will write about after that.”
“Maybe it won’t stop.”
“Everything stops.”

She took a hit and then I kissed her. I pulled her head back by the hair. I forced her lips open. It was a long one. Then I let her go.

“You like that, don’t you?” she asked.
“To me it’s more personal and sexual than fucking.”
“I think you’re right,” she said.