The Sunbeam's captive dust specks spiral and dive, climb and barrel roll. A dogfight of motes. Beneath them lies Andrea, splayed naked across the big overstuffed chair, Cussler paperback in hand. On the end table a half eaten apple awaits along with an impatient half-empty bottle of spring water and an indifferent block of white cheddar.

The lighting's just right, but the arrangement's not. *Put the book down, Andrea.*

She doesn't move. Perfectly still except her eyes' jittery line scan and carriage return. Mesmerized. Enrapt. Still.

*Put the book down, Andrea.*

A mote alights upon nipple. She feels it. But how? She stirs. Blinks at me.

"What are you staring at? Paul? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what? I always look at you like this."

I do. I always look at her like that. But mostly she doesn't see it. Can't see it. *The look.* It's usually buried under thick masks of everyday, layers upon layers of ordinary. An opaque barrier that shields the squeamish.

Because the look is not pretty. It's not sensual or romantic. It's violent, raw. It grasps and grabs. It's primitive, greedy. It takes and takes. Vicious and voracious, it rends her body to bits, savors each morsel, regurgitates and devours again. The look is not tender. It's a nest of fire ants, a meat hook, a laser-guided cluster bomb. It's-

"Paul, you're scaring me."

Above all, it's scary.

I always look at her like that.

"It's all right, Andrea. It's all right. I always look at you like this. It's just the lighting. The lighting's just right but the arrangement's wrong. The book- No, don't put the book down."

I take her free hand and place it on her breast. Vicariously I touch her. Her hand becomes my hand. I squeeze, she squeezes.

"That's nice, Paul."

*Yes, nice.*

I caress, she caresses.

"Mmm."

I pinch, she pinches.

"Ooh. Hurts."

*Yes, hurts. Nice.*