"Why did you sleep with me?" she asked.
"I was curious" he replied, as he licked her lipstick off of his bottom lip. He could see the blue walls, and her bare back with black hair peeking out from the white sheets, reflected in the mirror like an odalesque. "I wish Rembrandt were here", he mused. "Really? I would have thought our relationship is much more Renoir." He laughed. "Since when have you ever been interested in art history?" "Since I made out in the Temple of Dendur." He laughed again, then started searching for his hat.

He looked so handsome, his carved cheekbone and grey eyes crinkled together as he squinted across her bureau. She hated him at that moment, a hatred that started in between her thighs and spread throughout her entire body. "You have to be attracted to someone to hate them", she had always said, and he had always laughed, and asked if she thought that the US merely had an S&M fetish for Bin Laden. "I don't appreciate your sarcasm.", she would say. "Maybe I am just jealous because you don't hate me yet", was his reply. For that, she never had an answer, but would avert her eyes, the way she had when she was a little girl and came across sex scenes in movies. He, on the other hand, had always looked - "That's why I am so knowledgeable", he joked, stroking her hair and squeezing her thighs.

But now, she could see that his hands had moved with surgical precision through her body - expert and cold - detached. Now that he had finished the operation, he was meticulously collecting his supplies; the only hint that he had been there would be a slight crease in her new sheets, the way that on the operating table, it is only the faint smear of blood on the gurney that tells the patients' story - at least until the nurse comes in with a bottle of alcohol, swabs the metal, and is gone, leaving the space gleaming and silent, waiting for the next body to lie on its flat stomach, hungry for the taste of bones and thighs.