I remember when I first met you in that dormant November oven of Las Vegas heat, construction paper feathers snagging your strawberry blonde. The red finger paint of war dashed your pale cheeks. You smiled at me, offering your traditional "How!", loosing a flurry of giggles from your tribe of eight year olds. The name tag hugging your rusted orange blouse reveals your Indian name as Troupe Leader: Grateful Hawk, but I just call you Shannon. Hours later, propped against Moroccan floor cushions, the hookah simmering between us, I slip the red plastic frames from your temples, revealing hazel eyes tinged a burnt copper in the hazed dark. I breathe on the glass, wiping away smudges of war paint with the black linen table cloth. You wrest the toes of your machine stitched moccasin flats into the supple Persian imitation rug, our feet twisting, vying for position.
Will continue later...
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