#issue 211

It’s the way it runs through his fingers, fluid jet; the liquefaction, gleam, glister, glisten, slink and sheen of it. At first he buys them for her, always black, then steals them back, one at a time, holds them to his face, rubs them against his skin. The compulsion strengthens, he ravages washing lines, marauds the bedrooms of his neighbour’s wives, preferring moonlit nights, with that risk of discovery, the lures of paraphilia accelerating with danger. Lighted windows seduce him; women dress and undress, their shadow-play turns him on. The collection grows; its sinuous folds embrace his hips, groin and thighs, arousing him. In time, some pieces fade; he researches The Restoration of Black Silk. Boil logwood, immerse garment, simmer; take out, put to the dye a little blue vitriol or green coperas. Now replace garment, simmer again. Or use a decoction of fig-leaves. He chooses a decoction of fig leaves, soaks and stirs. The tenebrous gloss return