The room smells of them. He says, You don’t know who I am baby, as he presses her face into the pillow. They’ve never met beyond the room. They’ve seen each other in bars, restaurants and shops and ignored each other. Blindly walked on by as if from different time zones or alternative universes. Mirrors, parallels. Outside of the room is texts or emails; he likes to see her play with her nipples on videoclips, she likes to see…what the fuck does she like to see? I don’t need to see your penis, she texted, its ugly, I want something beautiful; your hands, your voice, maybe your words but not your putrid prick and its rancid ejaculate, send me flowers or hills and the sea. He responds, I want to see you in stockings in front of the mirror, forget the panties, film it all. She laughs. She films an ashtray. She films some fishbones. She films her leg with some indecipherable writing on it. She speaks to him in another language. In the room they love and abuse each other, they drink, they eat, they fuck, they love, they undress, they rip each other to shreds, they are tender, they are caring, they consent to each other, they kiss, they touch with feeling. Only in the room. Beyond the room they show no recognition to each other.