She peeled the gloves off slow, like she was undressing a corpse in reverse — latex crackling like old paper. Stockings stayed on. Always the stockings. Her thighs gleamed under broken neon, legs jittering like junkie marionettes. Then the reveal — a tangled, matted jungle between her legs, animal and unapologetic. Not pornographic, no — ritualistic. Ancient. Something from the pre-opium days of man. I lit a match off my zipper, watched the shadow of her hair flicker across the motel wallpaper like a Rorschach test drawn by a pervert priest. No words. Just flesh and static and a faint hum of insects behind the drywall