the twirls of hair in front of her ears. the young moon of folds above her eyes. the week-old scar of a squeezed acne a centimetre above her left eyebrow. the scar is small, the size and colour of a dark star. the strange centre of her hair, somewhere in the middle of the back of her head. someone said she was balding three years ago. she didn’t look close enough. she didn’t care. or she cared too much and thumbed SMSs all night long. then, the next morning she asked, “how could you act so indifferent when we were this close only two hours ago?” her negroid lips felt cold on mine, then her tongue advanced, a reconnoitrer for the spit than soon followed. or the love? the imitation of intimacy? the intimation of intimacy? how, can we account for me kissing the petals of haemorrhoid in her arsehole, so pretty?