His attention turned, he began to describe her. She will be the parked car ignited. He did not shave his legs. He looks into the rear-view mirror. He is not driving. He dries. The towel rubs along the shin and round the calf. His eyes met her watching. His leg rests on the tub edge. Her eyebrows skate. If the car is not a taxi, what is he 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. His toes curl. He stumbles upon her stubble. The intermittent pleasures of shaving appear in the mirror. Her hand to the wheel of the ignited car, he tosses the towel.