Mrs Andre

She bites his fingernails.

She clenches each nail in her teeth, wriggles it back and forth to soften it, tears it in a quick motion, and tidies up with a few final nips. He’s delighted.

She finishes his right hand and wants to stop. He implores her to continue.

There are no scissors.

He shifts in the bed, puts his head in her lap. They look out across their balcony at a Mediterranean bay enlivened at the moment by sailboats and bathers, guarded by a castle with sunbathers on the rocks, edged by the main street of Rapallo and the road to Portofino, and embraced majestically by lines of green mountains studded with villas and steeples.

“You’re good at this.”

“I’ve had practise.”

She holds his left hand and inserts each finger into her warm wet mouth twisting each finger with authority.

Afterwards she lights a cigarette.