don’t want him. I am cold, the wind blows through the apartment, I am destitute and I have nowhere left to go: I don’t know what to do except to walk away: and I can’t do that
because I am too desperate and he is one of the raped.
*
I have nowhere else to go. I have no money, no hope of being
published elsewhere, by anyone else, my work offends everyone
else. Life is dead ends, ghostly alleys. I need him. I am so
confused, so cold, unhappy. I don’t know what he wants.
Others say: not
*
Underneath, inchoate— it is
know he is coming closer.
*
I even say to myself: just do it. Just do it. But I don’t want to. I
say to myself: just do it, in the long run it will be so much
simpler, get it over with, just do it, he will get tired of you
soon, what difference can it make to you, one more or less—
but it makes a difference, I don’t know why, I don’t even want
it to: it just does. I am cold and I am tired and I don’t want to.
I am confused, but he is not. It boils over: he loves me.
I am scorched by it everywhere I turn, in private, in public, in
the little world of business where I go to meet with him, the
little world of huge skyscrapers and sterile offices. Like sunlight, it blazes. I don’t know what it is or why or what it consists of— but there is no missing it— I am his special
someone or something: he emanates it: it is no secret: every
secretary and office boy treats me like his bride. I like being
loved. He is no fool. I like being loved: so much so that I want
139
to be loved more: and more: and more. I like it when men love
me. I especially like it when it starts to make them hurt. I like it
when they hurt. I am hooked enough. I am a player in the game.
*
Nevertheless I do not want it. I am proper, distant. I am formal.
I am soft-spoken: in his world it means fuck me.
*
The phone rings. His voice slithers. There is some detail of
production. I am called into his office. I am treated like the
Queen of Sheba. Everyone is both warm and deferential, respectful, amused by my jokes, I am never left waiting, I am escorted, welcomed, not just by secretaries and office boys. The president
of the company introduces himself to me, shakes my hand,
welcomes me: more than once. I am singled out: the beloved.
I go in prepared not to take up time. I am there four hours
later, six hours later. Everyone has gone home. We sit alone
high up in the sky surrounded by dusk. It gets dark. We walk
out. We walk along the sidewalks. We come to where he turns
to go to his apartment. I hold out my hand for a formal handshake. He draws me close and kisses me. I walk on, alone.
*
