Her attention turned, she began to describe him. He will be the parked car ignited. She did not shave her legs. She looks into the rear-view mirror.   She is not driving. She dries. The towel rubs along the shin and round the calf. Her eyes met his watching. Her leg rests on the tub edge. His eyebrows skate. If the car is not a taxi, what is she doing in the back seat? Beneath the cloth, the skin warms, the flat rubbed hairs rise. It is for this pleasure. The hair so slick against the skin had the eye glued. From bath to car, feather sweetness, a quality of hair, twirl, another, the eye unfixes. Her toes curl. She stumbles upon his stubble. The intermittent pleasures of shaving appear in the mirror. His hand to the wheel of the ignited car, she tosses the towel.