They wandered about the house, each feeling intimately the presence of the other.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
I always hide her beauty from myself until it is too late to praise her for it.
Every early day with her was breathtaking. Every room was home. He kissed her eyelids in easy silence, he blessed everything around her. Flesh to flesh, thought to thought. She overthrew him and gave him a map of himself. More than the eunuch dreamer of his past life had imagined. The mist evaporated and he moved straight into life. The world came into focus: the tree outside, his fingerprint on the window. His reflection was only a reflection. Some time later, after all the dirty dishes, all the snubs and half-hearted peace offerings, he went to the crossroads, looked around at their lost days and lost interest. He came back late, lazy and hungry. By the old savage route they became strangers to each other. She asked him, Why was I made to use your greed against myself? He asked himself, Why do I let myself sabotage her joy? They groped and there was nothing but groping. She said, You don’t know what love is, hence you don’t love me. He said, Stop poking your finger in my nerves. Talk, she said. You let me do the dirty work and give me your crumbs. Talk if you dare. Why when I always want what you want do you never want what I want? And you wonder why we become enemies, he said, is this what you want? She said, It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I learned your needs better than you. Now look where I am. In this place you told me to go, even then you let me go first. And you arrive the same, you never let anything affect you. Listen to yourself, they shouted. Fuck you, they shouted.