Mara emanates insolence, irony, and power, enveloped in a splendid mantle of sensuality. An unctuous fragrance which impregnates you unwittingly. As stealthy as temptation. She attentively scrutinizes for the minimum flaw that would allow the advantage of the first move. The trace of intimate negligence which exposes the weak spot where to infiltrate. That little breech of confidence that friendly treatment obliges to. Here she starts to get her grip on you, to upset you, to control you with cutting arguments like rhodiated steel. How I have spent the night she asks just like that, with the indifference of who already knows the answer. She knows perfectly that my flesh is sore, that no skin has understood me that night, neither in the superficial nor in the deep. Neither last night, nor the other, nor the one before. Half dead nights in white satin of carnal despair, of affective indifference. A frustration that doesn’t cease.