[I was looking at photographs on nerve.com and found this tense delish piece of copy. It was better than the photographs it accompanied.]

All week the leg fantasized about the white boot, the mouth about the mouth, the here about the there.

Finally, a designated hour fell from the telephone like a pearl.

Now she walks down stairs in something close to a disguise, underneath which the barbed wire of tattoos catches on her lingerie.

Her body’s in a hurry. Someone’s got a gold leash around her heart.

His door trembles. He lets her in. And then he lets her in.

His head of dark curls sinks between her thighs. At this point, no one can remember who made the appointment; it only matters they’ve both come.

Leaving, in black shades, she is a formal portrait of a rendezvous.

The trench coat on the way there was dress code for anticipation. Now it is the uniform of escape. — Jardine Libaire