—This? Nothing. A photograph.
He looks at the photograph, and demands a story I don’t want to tell.
“Isn’t this what all women want? A lover who as passionately interested in the quotidian details of their boring, dysfunctional lives as in their desirable bodies?”
No. Not me. Or do I? I start to talk. I tell him about… about all of them. And, inadvertently, me. Things I’ve never put into words for anyone before…
“That’s the game you and I are playing. Do you not know that? I am looking for the key. You’re trying not to give it to me. But you want to play, and so you keep on talking, and so eventually, you will.”
I’m careful not to say too much. I am not going to take my sociopathic lover of the moment into the tragedy of my life.
“Why not? Tragedy is erotic. The things that make you laugh don’t arouse, lover. Check yourself.”
Really? I’m doing this? Why?
“Because you want to. Because you’re compelled. Does it matter? Just talk.”
So. I do.