You smear a thick sinful red on your nails without knowing what it’ll bring. You’re pretty sure you’ll lift a cigarette to your lips, also smeared red, and exhale a thin trail of smoke in a long spiritual line like a soul leaving a body.
And maybe your fingers’ll slip in between other fingers, reach out and grab the nape of a sun burnt neck, pull him in close. Lips on lips. Your smeared red against his dry cracked man lips, making your own mouth taste staler, smokier and his mouth taste like old postage stamps.
But you’re not sure.
The red drying slowly at the end of your fingers doesn't guarantee it. Or anything.
But it helps.
The Ocean at the End of the Lane