Twinkle is lying down beside me in nothing but a pale-skin-coloured bra which has three hooks in each of its four rows of fasteners. The bra is now locked onto the last set of hooks and I fantasise about running by finger underneath, alamost undoing it, but never undoing it.

The reason Twinkle is in a bra—and just a bra alone—is that Twinkle’s presence as a sexed body is unconcealed the most when she is concealed at least a little. We are playing a game of just staying in that interface between presence and absence. For instance, Twinkle’s buttocks form a perfect geometric shape in front of my eyes so that I am mesmerised by it and aroused by it. That is her invitation to dwell with her—at least in the bedroom. And when she bends her legs like a ballerina posing for a photograph, her calves come into view and so does most of her thigh. When I look at her midriff, her bra drifts into view—the bra I told you about. The bra is made of a synthetic material—which she claims is cotton, but then changes her opinion—and it does a good job of covering her back, while the front is barely holding together her breasts, which are half hidden in view—or fully hidden when she lays her hed down on the pillow.

What does Twinkle’s naked legs reveal? Does it have calves, which in stilettoes and pantyhose, shows up so seductively that it summons the rest of her fleshy thighs? Or, thinking about thighs, do they have scar marks? But you do not think so because her thighs should be fleshy, soft, white, and so biteable. Her heels are cracked which she tries to repair with an army of various salves, which tells me that she was not aware of her heels very much, which paints a particular portrait of Twinkle in my eyes. But her buttocks, especially when it meets her upper hips, has these marks which shows me where her skin stretched to make her the curviest woman I’ve ever met. To summarise: her body reveals a lot. In another language, I would say that her body gathers the world together into existence by its presence.

The bra on the other hand is a hiding that is not hidden. It hides and by the very act of hiding reveals that which is underneath. This is a phase of being where it both is and is not. That is the presence and absence merge together into that dimension which can only be experienced. When we make out later tonight, I do not think I will remove her bra.