How strange. I wish he’d open up and tell me everything, everything. I want to know more. I want him to lay himself bare to me. I want to chart his nervous system, count his lungfuls of air, unfurl his DNA one strand at a time. “Do you identify with Dorian Gray?” He blinks, visibly surprised at the question. “Do you think I should?” “I asked you.” “No,” he answers. “I’ve never had a portrait done.”
