This woman’s an easy glove, my lord, she goes off and on at pleasure.
–Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well (Act 5, Scene 3)
This is already in questionable taste. You can see
where I’m heading. What does she fit? Like
a glove. Her own hand? His? Some unknown
other? And if his, who is he? And if her, well, there is
that pleasure. Important to have all five fingers free
(though mittens keep one warmer.) Oh pleasure.
Are you always warm? Hot? Or is there something
to be said for cold ones. Revenge is a dish best served.
I never knew it. Five fingers can fold into a fist.
And what kind of pleasure is that?
