“Harder.”

She possesses a normal voice and a timid voice. This is her timid voice. I don’t know if it’s intentional.

But I do what she says, slap her harder. I leave a several days mark.

When I leave a hand print it is both aesthetically arousing and symbolic of an agreement. The sort of contract people don’t talk about. It doesn’t work that way. The mark denotes an excitement of cells beyond the designated zones between the hips and the mouths. Sometimes I want in other places. You might say it’s an attempt to penetrate what’s impenetrable.

She rests her head on her forearms. Dark, hairy forearms. Dark, hairy crotch. I’d just been in between her legs and left her sore. I haven’t shaved in days. I can tell when it hurts. There’s a twinge of the body. She’ll love it when my face is soft enough to run fingers through. Tangled, matted face. That could be symbolic, too.

She asked me if I was trying to hide something. The beard, I mean. People who ask this question are untrusting. I’m hopeful of changing their minds.

Her skin isn’t white. She might be of Latina or Mediterranean descent. My hand looks like a turkey.

“My hand looks like a turkey. Hold on.” I press in a winking eye with my thumbnail. “You’re a nice canvas.”

“Would you be mine?”

I lie beside her and face her.

“Where?”

Her eyes are closed. I’m caught unawares and close mine.

“Your shoulders. They’re smooth.”

I’m self-conscious in response. She reaches her hand to my shoulder and helps me feel better.