In the hallway there’s Zeus leaning by the bannisters, having a quiet smoke. The party has got too hot and noisy for him, he says.
“Me too,” I say. “I’m going up to bed.” I lift my cheek for a goodnight kiss but his tongue thrusts straight 
and deep between my lips and the world suspends its rotation. His hand inside my blouse touches, his mouth lifts out of mine, pronounces my name as if it were a foreign language: “Lucinella.”
I’m looking into the same astonished roundness of eye that Europa saw the moment of her rape, for whether disguised as bull, swan, golden shower activity (as they say on television and which requires a great imaginative effort) or as my aging politician, your true lover has the grace to be dazzled by each new passion. His veteran’s confidence needs no double entendre to leave loopholes for a misunderstanding. He says, “Let’s make love.”
