Her eyes are a deep sea green

She preferred to make love under strobe lights

Yet never under trees, a cave, nor in long grass
She craves the feeling of satin sheets
Yet owns only flannelette
Her bed is precariously held up with eleven bora-ridden planks and three mossy bricks
The twelfth plank is already broken
The fourth brick now props up her secret horde of science-fiction novels
She would hold a grape momentarily between her teeth
Then mercilessly crush it to a pulp
And gargle the juice
Before throwing back another egg cup of vodka
She wears tacky red lipstick
And although you could swear otherwise, she never used eye-shadow
Not even mascara on her lashes
Her shampoo bottle reads chamomile yet smells of rosemary
She takes pleasure fucking in lace
Hence most of her clothing is torn
All her dresses are see-through under certain light conditions
She purrs like a cat
And bathes luxuriously in the sun
Then beats-up fluffy toys with freaky realism
Her eyes are a deep sea green
Her hair a surreal shimmer of ruby red and damp-earth brown
But everybody insists she’s really platinum-blonde
She religiously eats porridge for breakfast
Then a short black with focaccia for lunch
She usually falls asleep just before dinner
Then wakes up an hour before sunrise moist between the legs
She reaches for the switch just beside the bed
The room is flooded with bright light, then darkness – over and over in rapid succession
I awaken to a world of frenzied light show of thumping polka music and her thighs wrapped around mine
I leave for work without breakfast while she polishes off the porridge
She suggests a lunchtime rendezvous in the botanical gardens
I pick out a tree with plenty of foliage
Just in case