She stands, her back against the rich mustard wall, sunlight beaming on her from the right, casting a shadow to her left on the side of the wall. Between the woman and her shadow (one facing out and one seeming to walk away) stands a basket of deep red flowers.
The woman beckons me; she calls me to, and perhaps from, my soul. I want to see her face. I want her to look up from under the hat so I can see her dark raven hair and her bright green eyes.
I want her to hold me, to smile, to step out from the wall and beckon me to follow her down the alley and into a small, dimly lit, dusty beige adobe room. I want her to lie down on the small wooden bed and unfold the poncho she has wrapped around her.
I want her to reach for me and say, “make love with me.”
I lie down beside her as a cloud crosses the sun.