“Three days in which to succumb to my grief, undisturbed...” She half bent over me, the tip of the index finger of her left hand trailed the thin red line down from my throat, slowly, unstoppably, not that for all in the world I would have wanted it to stop. I almost winced when she reached my clitoris, not from pain but from remembered pain, not from the shallow cut from her knife, but from the agony of the awl. A scar had begun to form on it, and I thought that it had lost some of its sensitivity, or all of it, it hadn’t been important, but I could feel it now, feel her, as she gently circled it, gently pinched it between two fingers, as she brought her face against mine, covered my mouth with hers, now only touched me lightly with one finger again, and then, with sudden force, thrust into me with her finger nail — screaming agony spread through me — I cried, I gripped her with my arms, my tongue filled her mouth, I pressed myself against her hand, her body, her soul — I sank into. In time, I became aware that I was staring at her and that she was staring back at me. In days gone by I would have averted my eyes, but not now. I was more confident now, and as I saw her look at me, I lifted my glass as if to toast her and took a sip. She smiled back but her actions surprised me. She opened her legs as wide as she could while staring at me; leaning back into her chair as she did so. I could make out that something was not right with her jeans but I couldn’t see what that was immediately; the light in the room was far too variable for me to concentrate. I glanced between her face and her jeans a few times but I had to let my eyes rest on her crotch for some time to try and figure out what was different. I saw her draw her finger across the zipped area, then I saw it disappear inside. I eventually caught on as to what was missing from her jeans. At that point, I did avert my eyes while I smiled into my glass. I slowly raised it and took another sip. My mind was.
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