Somehow I never pictured her kneeling, wearing only her open nightshirt, her fingers on her clit and alternating between her nipples, both hands moving with blazing speed, her head bowed to watch her breasts and then thrown back her face contorted in silent intensity before she pitches forward limp and gasping.

It is an incredible performance. Real, bold, for her quite brave and completely unexpected. So unexpected and oddly phrased I made her repeat the question. "Do you want to watch me get myself off?"

Finally understanding I nodded wildly in appreciation, sat enthralled watching hands and then face and then hands and then face again.

Such a birthday present. Such an incredible performance. A personal performance, a bold performance, a brave performance, a performance and a memory to be savored forever. But still performance. No eye contact, no spiritual connection and while real for itself I wonder how much like what I would catch her doing were I to catch her unawares. Would she be as silent? Would she perhaps be kneeling before some picture in a catalog or a magazine or on her computer screen? What was she thinking, remembering, imagining as she performed for me so silently?

So many questions left unanswered, so many connections into her mind left unexplored, a window in the wall opened briefly, a curtain raised, a stage revealed, a play performed, the curtain lowered, the window closed, the walls still there, but the memory will remain.