I am trying to pace, windows open, under the weight-of
blankets. He is sitting up on his bed, under blankets.
You know what I meant.
Oh, I do.
Some things are true. What he meant is true. I know what, I
know how, I know where, I know when, I even know why.
Oh, I do.
*
But I don’t want to.
He says my name. Please, he says, wanting me to stop.
But really, I don’t want to.
He says my name, pleading. Please, he says, please, I know,
I know, but what can you do?
But I don’t want to. I want, I say, I want, I say, to be this
human being, and I want, I say, I want, to have somebody
publish my book, I say, this simple thing, I say, I want, I want,
I say, to be treated just like a human being, I say, and I don’t
want, I say, I don’t want, I say, to have to do this. I have
nowhere else to go, no one else who will do this simple thing,
publish my book, but I don’t want to have to do this.
He says my name, softly. Please, he says, please, stop, you
must, he says, stop, because, he says, this is making me crazy,
he says, softly he calls my name, please, he says, there is
nothing to do, he says, calling my name softly and weeping,
what is there to do, what can you do?
I want, I say, I want to be treated a certain way, I say. I
want, I say, to be treated like a human being, I say, and he,
weeping, calls my name, and says please, begging me in the
silence not to say another word because his heart is tearing
open, please, he says, calling my name. I want, I say, to be
treated, I say, I want, I say, to be treated with respect, I say, as
if, I say, I have, I say, a right, I say, to do what I want to do, I
say, because, I say, I am smart, and I have written, and I am
good, and I do good work, and I am a good writer, and I have
published, and I want, I say, to be treated, I say, like someone,
I say, like a human being, I say, who has done something, I
say, like that, I say, not like a whore, not like a whore, I say,
not any more, I say, and he says, calling my name, his tongue
whispering my name, he says, calling my name and weeping,
please, I know, I know. And I say to him, seriously, someday I
105
will die from this, just from this, just from being treated like a
whore, nothing else, I will die from it. And he says dryly, with
a certain self-evident truth on his side: you will probably die
from pneumonia actually. Ice hangs, ready to cut each chest. I
hesitate, then crack up. We collapse, laughing. The blankets
