He had a black shirt, I didn’t. All my clothes were black except for shirts. Once he asked me to dress totally in black with his shirt. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. All his requests were unreasonable on one level or another. He stood beside the bed, I undressed by the wardrobe, He promised to buy me beautiful underwear, for himself. I didn’t object. I love black silk. I am not yet passed this desire, and of course soon I’ll indulge, as soon as his life has edged away from me, been teased out to the borders. This shirt was very old, ragged, but he took on the look of strength. I have a scarf like that, he was scathing, but whenever I wrapped it around my neck I was safe. The nearest I got to its meaning was when he held my throat during lovemaking. I never found that threatening even though we both knew my vulnerability at each of those extreme seconds, I’ve felt two other surfaces of similar softness: his eyelids, and the head of his penis. He never realised when I put silk around my neck that I was caressed by his eyes and penis simultaneously, and reminded of my own trust.