“Not exactly blistering out,” she says, but then maybe she’s the freak who can’t imagine without calloused hands getting a tan-line. Someone once called the lines of light and darkness of her body the pattern of farmers, until she showed him her fists, and the patterns of fighters.

Still, she can’t help laughing at her joke. She hides it in the drink, abandoned and half drunk, she plucks from the table. “Ce faux cul, c’est le roi des lâches.”