It was not a storybook she was walking into it was a rented room but there were candles, lit. Such warmth is always a surprise. No television. Refreshing. Drapes drawn and something on the stereo, a song she had not heard a thousand weary times before. But the song was old, older than her grandfather. She was feeling Mississippi in her veins. The whiskey helped. His hands were in her hair. Tiger feeling. Jungles and moon and Jupiter storms. No one knows the dance until the toes are tingling with it. The triangle glimmers question marks. Anything can be cheapened, crumpled into a ball and tossed into the receptacle that is never full. But she is a special angel without guard, all intuition and doo wop intent, treasuring trash well into her fifth decade of life in the hottest reddest most snarling state.

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