I could taste the lacquer of her nails on my tongue. I don’t know even know if God had seen her without a fresh pair of painted nails. I assumed she was born with them. As if her character would wither without a glossy coat applied to the small, but significant features. But none of that matter as she straddled me on her red leather couch. I didn’t care that she pronounced bagel like bag instead of bay. Or that I was pretty sure her name wasn’t actually Cinnamon. All that mattered was the heavenly thirty seven seconds I disconnected from reality while she jolted like a malfunctioning bull.