Коллекционер

           Alwayssneeringathim,jabbinghim,hatinghimandshowingit.Itwasfunny,wesatinsilencefacingeachotherandIhadafeelingI’vehadonceortwicebefore,ofthemostpeculiarclosenesstohim—notloveorattractionorsympathyinanyway.Butlinkeddestiny.Likebeingshipwreckedonanisland—araft—together.Ineverywaynotwantingtobetogether.Buttogether.

           Ifeelthesadnessofhislife,too,terribly.AndofthoseofhismiserableauntandhiscousinandtheirrelativesinAustralia.Thegreatdullhopelessweightofit.LikethoseHenryMooredrawingsofthepeopleintheTubesduringtheblitz.Peoplewhowouldneversee,feel,dance,draw,cryatmusic,feeltheworld,thewestwind.Neverbeinanyrealsense.

           Justthosethreewords,saidandmeant.Iloveyou.

           Theywerequitehopeless.Hesaiditashemighthavesaid,Ihavecancer.

           Hisfairystory.

           October31st

           Nothing.Ipsycho-analyzedhimthisevening.

           Hewouldsitsostifflybesideme.

           WewerelookingatGoya’setchings.Perhapsitwastheetchingsthemselves,buthesatandIthoughthewasn’treallylookingatthem.Butthinkingonlyofbeingsoclosetome.

           Hisinhibition.It’sabsurd.Italkedathimasifhecouldeasilybenormal.Asifhewasn’tamaniackeepingmeprisonerhere.Butaniceyoungmanwhowantedabitofchivvyingfromajollygirl-friend.

           It’sbecauseIneverseeanyoneelse.Hebecomesthenorm.Iforgettocompare.

           AnothertimeG.P.Itwassoonaftertheicydouche(whathesaidaboutmywork).