If



If there was a man who couldn't fall asleep, and so he slips out of bed

and walks quietly into the living-room

and then in some sudden fit of 4am chivalry gathers her clothes into a half-tidy pile

then he might notice how her clothes have changed from imposing, webby barriers

into things user-friendly as a thrift-store, as obliging as old deflated cushions

the panties might actually be completely transformed, into a cheerful grin

and this soft, intimate heap in his hands might seem to give a message that they were, in fact, the man's

co-conspirators.

Only the bra might seem to be still a little distant and aloof.


The man would really be the pervert

If he then carried the heap back into the bedroom, and laid them out next to her sleeping body

Laid them out properly, with the shoes next to her feet, and working upwards.

And if he then stepped back, to look at the two forms

his eyes continually moving, dancing on every detail

including the woman's relaxed, contented face.

This woman, who works, and farts, and swears, and reads books.

If such a man ever really existed

This nameless, generic man

Then he would probably spend the rest of his life in wonderment

at how interesting, and strong, women are.

c

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