In bed, wanting, you flip the pages of your "French in Fifteen Minute Lessons" stolen-from-the-library book. You lick your desert lips and feel the grains of sand against your tongue. Your hands are known travelers and the journey never long. Locks that you've memorized all the combinations to. Non passionément. Pas beaucoup. Your eyes search the pages for phrases you could use - phrases you need to repeat over and over in dark back alleys, smoking thick cigarettes and pouting painted lips. "I want you to kiss me" "Yes, I'm here alone." "How good are you at picking locks?"