Her skin was like marble – smooth, flawless, pale and cool to the touch. Exquisite. Bordering on the unnatural. Which of course is why it held such appeal. She claimed no man had touched her. Many had placed their hands on her body. Groped, caressed, feathered, fingered, prodded, kneaded, rubbed, kissed. But none had touched. Of course, I was intrigued and took this to be a challenge. To touch the Ice Queen. To melt her layers of self-imposed tactile exile. And so I told her that I would rise to that challenge and make my attempt to touch her. That in fact, I would touch her. At which she reached a willowy white hand toward me and I retreated outside of its grasp. I told her that it would have to wait until Saturday. Exactly 8:35pm. Location yet to be determined. And that before then we would spend the day together. As with the location, the agenda too was yet to be determined. In fact, she would have to meet me at 5:45am at the end of the jetty in Harvestown, 20 miles from where we were at that time, and the rest of the day’s events would disrobe themselves one at a time until our evening date inevitably lay bare, and unavoidable, before us.