I MADE TO PUNCH HIM. He said, "What an elegant little fist!"
The fiends he bore at his side at all times licked lecherously likeflames at my thighs. He took no notice or, if he did, paid no heed. Atiny muscle in my upper-inner spasms at the recollection.
When I met him I had milk, and whereas by all laws that milk should havegone dry by mid July he kept me painfully lactating all the way throughmirthless Christmas. I sometimes still scrape stray curds from soreteats.
He hated me. Now in theknowledge of his absence and abandonment there's no mistaking thesupercilious sadism of his smile, the occasional equine snort as indisgust his hard, huge head revolved against my reaching gaze. In memoryhe is always turning away: away from open-handed entreaties for mercy,away from the mute, imploring expression of intimacy. Recalling all theintense-and sometimes injurious-sessions beneath the humiliatingphilosophy of tiller-and-plow ferocity, reflecting on his abruptdisengagement and instantaneous dismissal, I can't conjure one occasionwhen I beheld his awful countenance face-to-face. It's a wonder-underall that sinister heft and weight-neither the cradle of my loins nor thecrib of my spirit snapped. Actually, on the latter, all the ballots haveyet to be counted.
All I see are the waning crescent of the hardened jaw, the loveless expression. And, distinct as horns above the mussed and musty hair, two wispy licks of untamed mane.