She – in the pink phosphorescence of her combustible world – sinks into opium transcendence, spread across the lush hotel bed, silver-sequined spandex skirt pushed high up on her hips, legs open to receive her daily bread. He – martini in hand, cigar between lip-stick smeared lips bruised by kisses, swollen with need, bitten by his own teeth in anticipation of heaven. She – feathers, glossy yellow sashaying across tiny hairs standing like soldiers on her flesh— so awake, so aware, so resolved to what will touch her muscled thigh, glory in the smoothness there and there. He – drifts and slips and slides with an air of indifference. But…