She bares her teeth at me and asks me if I want her match, or do my quiet eyes belie a need to glaum her snatch. She rasps at me with fingernails I imagine raking their way down my back, looks away and coughs with a smoker's sickening hack. She lets the wad of mucous that found it's way into her mouth, loose, she hurls it violently at the stoop. "Well," she said, "ain't that what you get. A life of smoking and a mouth full of regret." I couldn't help but think she was still hot as heck, but the yellow fingers put me off, the stained teeth, the way that she stank. "Would you like to come back to my place and meet my cat?" I asked, she laughed, coughed and then said "fuck that."