At night this young raven woman pulls onto the taxi rank, parks, flashing warning lights, inserts a roll-up in her tiny red car – waiting for a man. Cigarette glued to a lip jumping faster than a race car rev counter, Mascara builder, head crooked clamping cell phone to shoulder, two hands speed trawling the contents of a bag for a thing they’re frantic to find. This young flaxen woman, enquiring gentle direction, steps up to the red car window, recoils at the violence in those eyes flicked back faster than circus knives. Needle fingers pull the Rollie, pop the cork, spill the cocaine contents of the Mouth unbridled, convulses random, spasms a hole, a cut, a crack, a chasm, a beast without a brain, a bronco bucking a stone cold killer face – waves of loathing & detestation. We catch each other’s eye, the raven woman with the bubbling lips, caught with her cool betrayed, waggling gear stick desperate in the dark for reverse as I observe, unfazed, leaning silent underneath this streetlamp.