While sat in the passenger seat, she inspects herself in a small mirror she carries in her purse. Looking not outward but inward, behind my closed eyes I see cheerleaders dancing just for me. They wink suggestively while gyrating their hips causing me to dribble from the sides of my mouth. There’s dried blood beneath my fingernails. It’s on my wrists as well as the cuffs of my jacket. The city breathes. It sings as we speed through red light after red light not caring about anyone who happens to be crossing the street. Lost in her reflection, she distorts herself as thin streaks of light penetrate her retinas. She has a split lower lip and there are petals in her pockets that smell like her womb. There are flies on the dashboard, mostly dead, but some still alive despite the heat and lack of water. They crawl in circles and they crawl in rings that mirror the rings of her areolas. Her tights are torn. I tore them. She complained, but I had a taste for what she was holding back. She was wearing that black shirt of hers, the one that leads me to picture the smoothness of her stomach. When she opens her legs, I envision a sacred temple in Palmyra. Amid the sand and stone, there are victims sprawled on the ground with their throats cut. Thousands of years worth of culture, and then a blade job undoes everything. Her navel is a hive of activity. It pulls me in like the cartoons I watched as a kid. All things imaginary- all things porno. When she turns her head and opens her mouth, I lose my grip on things and just like that, she swallows me whole.