The blade cuts into her wrist smoothly, with unexpected tenderness.
Blood's beautiful crimson coats the soft flesh.
One day, she finally sees the fuschia and violet
slithering downwards in seductive rivulets.
They find her, purple and beautiful -
a canvas painted in the colors of her blood.
The coroner notices the beauty of her frigid buttocks.
He feels himself harden at the inadvertent touch of her thighs.
During his lunch break, he remembers his arousal and retches in the men's room;
he is unable to eath the quiche his wife baked him.
That night, in bed, he recoils from his wife's hand on his shoulders.
Remembering the buttocks' beauty, he feels ashamed of his desires.
His wife murmurs melodically;
she rubs his fingers up and down his spine, but he does not respond.
The next morning, his wife discovers his untouched quiche in the refrigarator
and cries.
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