I’m seeing a man in Tucson these days, (in mugwort dreams). We meet about once a month on his bed. I’m usually wearing the striped dress Adria gave me, while his shirt is always off, exposing his weathered chest and throat. The lines and sun wrinkles on his skin look like the work of a tiny animal scrabbling at his neck. If you have these areas laid open and exposed in the wild, it surely means you are close to death, vulnerable to attack by predators. I wonder if he thinks I am going to kill him when we are done, probably not, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I try to engage him with jokes and cute little remarks, and his response is always, “You are funny!” And I want to reply, “Yeah, I know, you should try it sometime.” But I don’t say that, instead, I just lay on his bed in the afternoon desert light.