REPLY . . . the kind of woman who lets her lover touch her, first one place, then another. She wants to arouse his greatest strength, then take him into her, forcefully, equalling strength with passion. In the morning she is drawn into herself. This is the time of day she trusts most, when her mind and body feel entirely alone with each other. Her fingers are tapered; she can remember when she could almost see through them, to the bone. She rests a hand next to her cup of tea, then turns it on its back, then turns it over again. The light coming through the window slips underneath the table and warms her feet. She will be alone tonight--he will find this mysterious, he will ask questions. He must ask questions, he never recognizes falsehood from the way it is spoken. One corner of her mouth lifts. A type of smile. He asks many questions she will never answer; once he even asked If you were a man . . .