Her attractive pain and my suspicion that the boyfriend gives good head Say it and it could all be over. A nasty fall into readymade spite slipping off forked tongues silvered with reflected repartee, what starlet devils we could be to one another, what slappers. That maybe this is the appeal. We are a species of object set to repeat, battering in tendency when frustrated, loudly banging when not actually explosive.

I am unkind when disappointed, more unkind than I intend or realize or know. My efforts to change this in myself are like road works left unfinished, dead bouquets of cables go to rust around the mouths of unpoured columns on my abandoned access road to detachment, the abandoned land passage to India.