The elephants on parade just stood and watched.

Fresh cigarette smoke wrapped  like a silk scarf around ylang-ylang incense trails and mingled with the vanilla/sandalwood fragrance of the candles burning. The late afternoon sun warmed the exotic spice air that filled my living room and he told me that it smelled like what Morocco looks like in movies.

 “Sex on Fire” could certainly be heard, from the radio…

…from the wipes-off-easy leather sofa with the chocolate-plush faux fur throw that captured  and held for days, maybe weeks, a strand or two of his long, jet black hair. Sounds were made.  A low moan escaped someone’s lips, accompanied by the occasional faint clink of metal against a tooth.  Elbows, hips, arms & legs jostling about created a jingle from the small bells that chimed out of the four corners of saffron yellow pillows.

He tasted like beer, youth, vibrancy, and belonged in this emporium of things that are intriguingly cool to me. Caught my eye, had to have it--to look at and to touch. A collection of curiosities, some set atop hand-painted shelves—stripes of crimson red, burnt umber, gold, espresso—like the bronze genie lamp, longing to be rubbed…