He loved her. He needed to feel her response to his touch, and every response made him want more, and so he took her whole, and he loved her. And she felt him complete her, as both became one, as both became young and old, rising and falling, as they melted all their colours together, singularly alive.

And yet her neck remained virgin, her black scarf fending him off alone. Her flawless serenity would invite his eyes into hers, and so, even knowing he was no match for her eyes, he would ask for the scarf to be taken off. She would always reply that taking off the scarf would only sadden him.

He was only a man, his love thus only limited. And so, one day, no longer able to bear the sight of her black scarf, he decided that his woman would be, once and for all, fully unveiled to him.

He watched her sleep gaily on a garden bed, relaxed, smiling in passive contentment. A sunset flared, and every fibre of her shone, even her neck, sang with the sunset. Her serenity did not waiver as he got closer to her, and slid his fingers between her virgin neck and the black scarf.

And the scarf was undone.

Immediately, in one movement, wings, big, black, feathered wings unfolded from her. They moved once, and she was floating in the air, as they flapped majestically around her, and the wings seemed to surround him, envelope him, even as she floated far above him. And only as he felt her wings caress him did he know that for all this time he had not shared love with only a woman, but with an angel, an only child of a virgin beauty.

She looked at him, glowing more than ever with eternal serenity, her smile never fading. And then wordlessly, she flew away, unbound.