without a name. For her there was a line back to her ancestors that was tactile, whereas he had erased the path he had emerged from. He was amazed she had loved him in spite of such qualities of anonymity in himself.) 

She was on her back, positioned the way the mediaeval dead lie. I approached her naked as I would have done in our South Cairo room, wanting to undress her, still wanting to love her. What is terrible in what I did? Don’t we forgive everything of a lover? We forgive selfishness, desire, guile. As long as we are the motive for it. You can make love to a woman with a broken arm, or a woman with fever. She once sucked blood from a cut on my hand as I had tasted and swallowed her menstrual blood.() 

There are some European words you can never translate properly into another language. Felhomaly. The dusk of graves. With the connotation of intimacy there between the dead and the living. I lifted her into my arms from the shelf of sleep. Clothing like cobweb. I disturbed all that. I carried her out into the sun.