(this doesn't work unless put on your 
     Rush soundtrack before you read this)

     It was a hot, sultry night where I was.  Really hot; somewhere
in the nineties.  There was a smell of new asphalt which had been
put in that afternoon a few blocks down.  Some old italian woman
was cooking a stew too, what was she thinking.  It was the kind of
night where you just sit in your chair sweating, wishing some cute
dish was rubbing ice-cubes all over your body.  For me, that cute
dish was my dangerously cute redheaded girlfriend.  The only thing
that kept me going was somebody playing Clapton in the flat
downstairs and the thought of her.  Who ever he was, that guy could
play.  It was enough to make a man cry, just beautiful.  The memory
of turning with her ever so slowly in the middle of a pitch black
room, so slow that it crossed that barrier from dancing to that
pure primal sensual lust.  Touching her skin, our lips brushing by
each other.  Damn I missed her.