I was nine years old the first time I understood that a woman could be two creatures in one skin.
The memory still comes to me not as a sequence of events but as a scent. Burning paper, old incense, and something deeper, muskier, a smell I had no name for then but now recognise as arousal. It was a winter evening in the house where I grew up, a stern and beautiful house in the Bavarian countryside, full of crucifixes and silence. My father was away. He was always away.
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