In my dream, I was naked, tasting a man's tongue. My eyes were closed,  cornbraids stuck to my scalp like surgical implants--bumps of blue and green and yellow. Our faces didn't touch. Only our tongues met.  Our tongue-kissing was without saliva and taste. The sky- the dead chemical gray of a post-apocalyptic world.

He left me to go up a hill in his green poncho while I sat at the car with my legs parted. I was pink lips and thighs and and delicate breasts. I had eyes rimmed with black pencil. I waited as the rain poured. It was endless rain, all silver needles and mud and rivulets of black water. I touched myself as he walked up the hill. He stopped to look at me.

There he was, wet and draped in green vinyl. I could smell the wet rubbery smell of him, and underneath the moisture of his skin.

He opened the door.