And she, the woman, Charlotte, was no longer arching from a river of sand or even following him through an endless forest in his dreams, but was standing in front of him, very shy now that she had put down her tablet, and with her eyes downcast she was unbuttoning the first button of his collar. The back of her hands were warm beneath his chin. She fumbled, bit at her lip. He looked at her and found that he could not want her, for he had already had her, and thus any arousal on his part, anything but total passivity, would take her back there to the place that he had originally put her.

How sin circles through a life.

She moved her hands down to the second button and to the rest. She unbuttoned the sleeves and slid his shirt off, which she carefully folded and placed on the bentwood chair.

She picked up the pad and her writing was shaky.

TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF.

He had heard through his open window a man saying that some of the women wanted to watch a man take off his clothes, but this man telling the story had made it sound amusing, and Justin now felt only fear and regret. He took his shoes off, then his socks, then his pants, wadding them in a bundle and throwing it in the corner. He sat back down in his boxer shorts. The prospect of new words on the pad was suddenly dreadful, because they contained commands he would have to obey, whether he wanted to or not.

She patted the cot and indicated with her gestures that he should lie down.

He sat down on the cot again and leaned back until his head touched the pillow, lifting his feet. She sat down next to his hip. Looking at him. He lowered his eyes. The shame of a body bared by a stranger.