That’s what she was, what she thought of herself. That: the title—negotiable beauty, looks for
sale. She was a work of art, all right.
And she was full-service, the whole act. She figured out what you needed and provided it, an
engulfing fantasy, a gestalt of lies. What you never got, what no one ever got, was her, the real
person, the core creation. After a while she never got that either. Maybe it didn’t exist.
I only knew what she showed me: the candied apple, the Tunnel of Love, The Wild Mouse,
thespunsugarcorndogdietcokediet, the whole nonnutritive unsustainable Emotional Carnival.
Did I mention the House of Mirrors?
She showed me mes I didn’t know I had. She showed me who I could be: A wreck of
dependency, jealousy, and lust, spending whatever sacrifice it took for an hour… a look… a
mouth.
A month. A month to move from a preoccupation with sex to fantasies of violence; from
screwing to striking, then confusing the two.
Time only ends.
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