To leave the freeway is to arrive at her door with flowers. Finding a parking garage at the lower end of town is seeing her eyes through her hair at a crack in the door. Searching floor B and then floor C for a space and then finding one back on B heading out is talking with her about their colors as she arranges them in two vases, one for the bedside table and one for the window. Getting lost in the park in the darkness until finally finding the roots of the tall trees built along the steps is being about to ask if you can use the bathroom but being cut off by her dancing slowly backwards into it while opening your strange, squat bottle of wine from Wales, then closing the door, then urinating so loudly you feel scandalized until you realize it's sinkwater passing into a deep and echoing vessel (could she have poured out the wine?). Ascending past the judgmental facades of the hometowers of the moral, old and rich and tripping frequently in their merciless shadows is sitting first at one end of the single couch and then the other while deciding what to pretend to be looking at while idly tracking an inpour of phone messages from a baselessly panicking acquaintance who wouldn't listen if you said so. Negotiating the turn where instead of platforms the sweep of steps is intervaled by inset carp pools with underwater steps of their own, making for a shelf of fish, one of black weeds, and a central trench of bubbles and debris where a fountain and statue had been removed from each, a casual absence spurring mild eurekas about filtration and wondering if the smaller ones ever swim into the works is her sudden reappearance in too much nudity to adjust to without seeming uncomfortable in a way misinterpretable as disgust or disapproval such that your heart races and your pattern of sweat susceptible skin brews its ceremonial helmet and you wonder if they're the visible drops or just a sheen or perhaps even subtler or instead rivulets or even washes with V shapes in the shine where your face grades suddenly and you need to open your mouth to get enough oxygen and realize with horror that you'd better say something to naturalize the gesture but whatever it is will have no or too much sound and none articulate then at last process that she'd winked at your reflection in a mirror while passing and exited into the bedroom singing and clearly high. Entering the abandoned-seeming outer lobby and picking half the flowers from a trellis out an open window and wondering which of the elevators goes to her part of the building is a minute of aimless talking while your shoes and her tatter of dressing-gown come off and you try a few angles of locking that your bodies can't stay with until the gradual impress of otherflesh smoothness and whatever word fits how a third kind of temperature happens at first touch that never returns melts all strangeness away into beauty.