A Place Called Home

God I love this woman. It looks hot and sticky where ever this cover was shot. I think P.J. is just coming home from a night out on the town and is returning home to her New York apartment where the air conditioner is still broken, so we'll just have to sleep with the windows open and the smell of our sweat in our noses. The linen curtains will gently flow into the bedroom and we will stare at them hypnotically, not being able to sleep, resorting to running ice cubes up and down each others chest. "Will this damn heat ever let up?" she'll loudly whisper, but I'll know she's secretly enjoying the muggy conditions as much as I am. The tiny radio above the bed is playing 1940's jazz and you can hear the light late-night traffic outside the window. I can still taste the salt on her smooth, wet, brown shoulders.