A Savage and Perfect Bow

The first time she blinked at me, squinting disgustedly, it felt like her eyes puckered and sent me cheap blue kisses; continued every couple seconds, soundlessly
clashing, then springing back open, as if to say "I can't believe you eye me like you'd ever see my naked rear."

She'd have looked good orphaned, all red curls and spilling peepers.

Her posture, cricked from years of leaning on her daddy's name, was badly in need of improving. I think I gave it a shot in that barn, when we played at moustachio'd villain and prickteasing nun. It shut her up, it's true, but those kissing eyes - just like
that pair of blinking, thrusting, Cupid-crimson lips, perfect in court, expertly lying - well, they strike through the haystack of my memory with fire. They arch and tense
and deny I ever vaulted the fence into that undergrowth, but I sworded, like Sleeping Beauty's beau, through the weeds.

Please believe me, I knifed once! I darted a prize on a very short loan, that's all. It's tempting to throw myself in a cell, ripping up her floorboards once more for the benefit of a jury. Prop in place of mangled prick or no, I broke her in!

Don't study those lips when she swears her oaths. It won't grow back if she hangs a better man. Look instead at her nose, wriggling like a maggot smelling a fat carp; the pleasure and damage well selected.

Whittled, yes, to form one glorious piety fable and one rather foggy Justine.

The arrow, absent from her bow, which even now shines gorily, was fitted first by me. Has fallen, yes.