In a city lit by blurred lights and deafened by the quiet droning of television sets, there is a woman. She has rosy cheeks. She has bad breath. She takes her clothes off in every film. She is so beautiful that it hurts to look at her. She has a bottle tan, put on in the dark, in the bath. She is the cream in my coffee. And she watches you. And she sees that you see her. And she stares back.