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It is Sunday.

Our boxer enters the studio with the crack on his lip still not dry, but open and accessible. He finds the photographer confidently withdrawn, repositioning the tarnished bed he is to sprawl on, and once again introduces himself nervously. Distracted, the photographer nods, again rumples the sheets, then directs him to the dressing room where he will find hangers and a robe—magazines if he should need. But it is too cold and each wall cracks with the memory of bare and beautiful women. The silk clings; about us a dew of misused powder.

There is our erection, quick and buoyant, with a curious hand unsteady outside of darkness.