Excerpt from: “Last Resort”

Up against a glass wall facing the darkened mountains, Larry smokes. He’s talking, but I don’t think it’s really to me. “It’s not like I love her,” he says. “You know what? I’m not sure I ever really loved her. What is love, anyway?” He’s quiet, his back to me. I sure hope he doesn’t expect an answer. He goes on, “Who says you have to promise this, promise that? Who says you’ve got to stay just because she did something for you, just because—”

“I don’t know,” I cut in. “Who says? I mean, yeah. I totally know what you mean.”

He turns to look at me, swallowing me in parts. All I have to do is let him look. When he gets bored, he’ll ask for the thing he wants, and then more. He’ll have his combinations, his own way of rolling his tongue. The palms of his hands might be cold or rough or stick to me, his breath will either show what he’s eaten in the last day or be thickly disguised by mint. He’ll tell me to turn left or right or balance on one hand or put my head here. In the end, he might cry like a boy or speak in another language or simply say nothing at all until I get off him and let him find his last cigarette. I know what to expect. The only difference is that the woman who loves him is in the house waiting. The only difference is anything I do to him will also be done to her.

(2006, Small Spiral Notebook)