Alma Hatch, Rose Hole

p. 69 The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon

Alma coming and coming, and screaming and coming. Me coming then, too. No words left, only not-talking passing through me into her. Through her, my body pulled up sweet to her sweet, to sunlight on a white bird way up high in the blue, flying.
Alma Hatch's body was sarsaparilla or hard candy in a dish or an all-day sucker. Something so sweet and pink and sticky you got it all over yourself. Something once you starting in on you couldn't stop til you made yourself sick. Always smelled of roses, too - roses mixed with woman smell. Alma Hatch was always putting rosewater on her. Behind her ears, under her arms, on her wrists. Sometimes, she'd just sit her ass down in a puddle of that stuff and suck rosewater up insider her. If you walked into a room and Alma Hatch had been in there during the last twenty-four hours, you'd know by the roses. Pink roses. Not red, white, or yellow - pink. Nipples were pink, woman's hole was pink, lips pink. I swear Alma Hatch was no white woman. She was a pink woman.
"Best whore in the state," Ida Richilieu would say about Alma years later. "What makes Alma so good is that she looks like a rose, smells like a rose, and then fucks your thorns loose."