I turn off the street and start down the alley. I am going to her. I call this walk Hannah's Alley.

When she beckons, arranges, she whistles and calls; when she sets things up and lets me know. When Hannah tells me, makes casual mention, whispers in my ear. She gives me the word and I always jump. We make our appointments, set times, measure discretion, schedule things around us. The anticipation, fear of disruption, not to mention the anxiety of cancellation. The thrill of waiting is debilitating, symptomatic of a disease.

You see, Hannah says, Hannah says she likes it.

And that's why I'm walking down Hannah's Alley towards Hannah--if Hannah likes it, Hannah will have it. I'll be a participant, eagerly, in Hannah's getting what Hannah likes.

Because I like it, too.

And there's the way she makes me want to.

The hair of her the pungency of moist old concrete, the better back-buildings lining Hannah's alley. I walk through the smells of garbage spilled so long and gone completely rotten, the decay of old leaves. Odd colors turned muddy, the substance of the colors turning into dirt. The flush on her skin. And there is the wood, the way wood ages, spoiled by rain. Dry rot and pestilence. Dead animals. The bending of her neck. The creak of wood splitting over the years. The air thick with the stench of termites. Her fingertips, and their touch. I listen to all the sounds of the street, muted and distorted when they reach me from the street, I walk this muffled tunnel on my way to see Hannah.

The way is patchy and uneven, islands of old cobbles, the breaking asphalt patched with pitch, concrete or gravel. Old garbage turning into dirt lining the creases, crannies and cracks, collecting in the potholes. Every patch is a beauty-mark on Hannah. A blemish of perfection.

I jump when she jumps out at me. While I know which garage is Hannah's, she is always apt to surprise me elsewhere on my path. I never stop at her garage; walking past it sometimes, but only if need be.

Hannah pulls me into a narrow weedy strewn strip between garages, pressing me up against a wooden wall, planks of flaking paint.

There's open sky above us, but it's as if we're standing in the dark.

Her lips tug towards mine; I can smell her getting closer. She misses her mark and her lips smear across my cheek seeking mine. There's this moisture of Hannah, a smudge of it on my face as she makes me forget all about it. Her hand finds mine, pulling it to where she likes it.

More Hannah-damp.

And I like it, too.

She bends away, leaning back from the waist. Hannah's eyes look at me the way things catch my eye when I'm walking down the alley. All the glitter-sparkle shiny stuff. A scrap of foil or shard of glass. Or diamonds and gold.

See, Hannah says . . . she says she likes it.