Ms. 22 got sun-ripened older. Nobody sees her for the shine on her hair. She sits in smoked-up places examines man-shave faces watches for a familiar gleam/spark in his eyes in the way he dances his walk, or blows his music, or rolls his own. in the way he wears his shoes, or paints his jacket, or laces his belt. She hisses, "Yessssss— but, can he really fuck? Will he grow wild on the vine?" She's been around. She knows alcohol-infested dazzle eyes and smiles are mostly false flaccid promises. But—a big bold ripe-remembered but— A few times "I just had to had to have him" was a bespoken bachanalia beyond magic. So, at 35, She wants to stay here to leer at beer-boys unhook the grapes from their stems peel them devour them.