Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

by Philip K. Dick

“I would never turn you in. I love you.” “You’ve known me perhaps five hours. Not even that.” “But I can always tell.” Her tone, her expression, both were firm. And deeply solemn. “You’re not even sure who I am!” Kathy said, “I’m never sure who anybody is.” That, evidently, had to be granted. He tried, therefore, another tack. “Look. You’re an odd combination of the innocent romantic, and a”—he paused; the word “treacherous” had come to mind, but he discarded it swiftly—“and a calculating, subtle manipulator.” You are, he thought, a prostitute of the mind. And it’s your mind that is prostituting itself, before and beyond anyone else’s. Although you yourself would never recognize it. And, if you did, you’d say you were forced into it. Yes; forced into it, but by whom? By Jack? By David? By yourself, he thought. By wanting two men at the same time—and getting to have both. Poor Jack, he thought. You poor goddamn bastard. Shoveling shit at the forced-labor camp in Alaska, waiting for this elaborately convoluted waif to save you. Don’t hold your breath.