There were no pillow top mattresses or feather beds, only concrete floors in the Karachi women's prison. The Woman didn't sleep at all the first night that she was pushed into the cell with several other women. She had been stripped, not in the naughty way that she preferred, and covered with a scratchy black robe and headdress. But the time the sun was filtering through the hallway, her soft legs were pink from the rough cloth and matched her bloodshot eyes. The other women took turns squatting above a hole in the corner. The Woman felt so alone that she didn't look at their faces. She knew this was her end. Instead of the barrel of a gun or a knife by a jealous lover, it was the cold floor of a cement prison cell with a hole in the corner. How ridiculous it seemed.

Nights proved to be the worst time, even when the guards sporadically played music. Between the other women crying or snoring, The Woman was left with her thoughts. Every night, they drifted back to him in one form or another. Clients became a blur with little details, but The Virgin came with clarity. She relived her game in her head. Her favorite was the look on his face as he saw her for the first time compared to the look on his face when he looked at her for the first time; the eyebrow barely up and the man behind the blue eyes softened. He didn't see the red lipstick, he saw the lips. The soft hands meant little to him, other than being moisturized; he felt the quickened pulse. And for all of the practice she had her entire life, she could not shut down to him. He drew her into the game and spurred her on. She would win over The Man who would outlive God to have the last word, even if it was the last thing she did. Betrayed by her own shrewdness, she failed and lost. Everything.

She was stuck in her mind as her body wasted away and her nail polish chipped off. Trapped in the state of perfecting The Virgin to a god-like status, playing out conversations that had been and never would be. She prayed to his mind palace and the face that she had memorized; the cheekbones she regretted caressing with her whip instead of her palms and the earlobe she has whispered to but never kissed. The rich, baritone voice that had sparred with her echoed in her mind, sometimes mocking her sentiment and other times soothing her despair.

The night a scratchy recording of a violin played, she slid down the wall and into a fetal position. Face hid in her knees, none of the other women could see her cry as The Woman heard her funeral dirge played. As the others enjoyed the music, her heart sank deeper and deeper into misery. As the recording continued, her misery changed into a conversation with him through the notes. Each song became a tête-à-tête of wit and regret. When the record ended, she knew she had had her conclusive conversation with The Virgin.