There's an Irish bar on my bike ride home, with a worn deck in the back where smokers sometimes relax. Its set near a ravine with crows and cardinals and blackbirds. Squirrels that hop through the tall grass like dolphins.An abandoned, overgrown home set in the woods.

I sit there, usually drinking alone, feeling the wind. The sounds. The booze.

And sometimes I get to see her, one hundred yards away....

Shampooing in that upstairs window. That little portal which only showcases her shoulders and curls...

I think I'm the only one who sees it....

Watching her slowly push the water through her hair...

Rubbing the soap from her eyes....

Her shoulders wet and strong. I wonder what they feel like. Pushed into my rib cage as she falls asleep. That wet hair dripping onto my neck. The smell of peach and mango keeping me awake.

I wonder how she kisses.

How her cheek would feel against mine. Slowly breathing in and out, in and out.

Fingers gently wrestling.

What candles does she have burning? Lilac? Pumpkin spice?

Is it jazz or blues that I hear?

Will she like the Pinot I bring wrapped in a brown bag? Or should I choose a white?

These are questions that circulate as I sit on that finely polished deck. Alone. Rolling cigarettes. While the men and women find real mates among the smoke and clatter.

Oh well. Its probably a dude anyway.