She likes Carne Asada on Friday nights. The kind where the juice streams down her arm, to her elbow, when she bites into the soft-shell taco. She licks the trails up with her tongue, napkin be damned.
And she likes vodka blushes; the way the drink makes her lips feel all tingly and tart. Like she’s at Studio 54 and dizzy from the buzz.
Sometimes she straightens her hair with an iron. There’s no danger in it but she likes to imagine there is.
She never wears heels. She goes barefoot when she can, relishing the soft slap the pad of her foot makes against a variety of surfaces. Cement is her favorite. She’s never had porcelain.
She reads her girls bedtime stories about Greek mythology. In her tales, Medusa has the right to rage; the Amazons cut their breasts off and were still lovely.
At night, when it’s late, she picks up the phone and purrs her words. One man tells her he’s in love with her completely. She smiles and hangs up, used to her effect.
She reminds people of a dream they once held. In between fits of passion and glory she spins a web that sticks to them. LS