[ Intrigued, Armand leans into the memory, lets it surround him for a few moments. He feels those bodies beneath his hands, feels himself hot and wet between his thighs, feels Parisa's remote compassion. She's right; he understands, and he's fascinated by the road she's taken to that conclusion. ]

I believe so. Love is often a harsh light that scours all else clean. How do they feel about your dissection of their moment? Surely some must be unhappy to be denied the chance to provide you with the same pleasure?