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And he sat looking at her. He enjoyed looking at her very much. She was rather beautiful. He studied her face in profile. He watched her reach up and tuck stray locks of blonde hair behind her ear, the tip of her middle finger gliding along its outer edge, her cupped hand pausing at the apex of this movement, giving the appearance that she was straining to hear something just out of earshot, and thought this was about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He noted how the sunlight attached itself to her, how it made her skin glow in areas, leaving shadows sharp under her jawline, carving out the thick muscle that ran to the pit of her collarbone.

That muscle is called the sternomastoid, he thought, and the collarbone is called the clavicle.

It is helpful when drawing the human figure to observe that the clavicle has an appearance not unlike that of an inverted clothes hanger.

Now unsure if knowing any of these things enhanced his appreciation of her beauty, he suspected he might be getting out of it again. He had to be careful. He often caught himself getting out of it at the wrong times.

Once, while making love to the first woman with whom he was capable of committing such an act, he asked himself am I finally making love or simply having sex, and knew then he was out of it and was only observing it and it became a cold, sterile thing and they both knew it. Yet, later that night, he had been with her again without getting out of it and the experience left them tired, empty and satisfied. So, when he woke late the next morning to her singing softly in that slow honey voice wearing his shirt unbuttoned combing her hair as she smiled at him in the mirror, there was only the memory of that second time, and things went quite well for a couple years before he started getting out of it again.

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