Fuck the pleasures of the senses, she says, smearing her voice with a fingertip rubbing cocaine remains into her gums, I’m only in it for the soul. Pupils like pie plates, she’s the aperture end of a camera, absorbing light and spitting out interpretation. I don’t know where we are. The world rushes at me with the speed of relativity. I try to slow things down by pushing my hands through the table, forgetting the reality of the situation. I ask if we should fuck, but she won’t stop shaking her head. The soul, she says, where’s the soul?