A Fetish

I knew a man who liked his women to wear heavy makeup, foundation so thick you could scratch their foreheads and come away with it under your nails. He would insist that she sleep with her make-up on through the night so when they awoke the next morning, he could trace the paint creased along the lines of her face, the halo of red burred around her mouth.

This was true nakedness, he said, a woman exposing the scaffolding of her beauty.

If he hurt a woman and she dabbed at her eyes, mindful of smearing her lashes, he did not worry about her for long. But if inky rivulets of mascara slid down her cheeks, he would think about for her weeks afterward, throwing her slender body against furniture, her sorrow at once sable and erotic.